The Phantom's Witness
by KittyPimms
Summary: The killer masked, his true identity unknown, Christine is the only one to have witnessed his activities and lived. Her testimony is crucial in the police's efforts to track down this elusive killer known only as the Phantom, and when her life is threatened, witness protection remains as the only recourse. Which places her directly under the watchful eye of Erik, U.S. Marshal. E/C
1. Chapter 1

Happy Cyber-Monday! My gift for you is clearly... a new story! (About time, right?)

This story is already complete, and for those who are... *coughs*likeme*coughs* , it is ready for purchase on Amazon by the same title—print or ebook, whichever you prefer. And if you're a part of Kindle Unlimited, it's even free! Doesn't get much better than that, right?

With that in mind, I wrote this story a bit differently. The chapters are _long,_ and I don't... like reading long chapter online. There are exceptions to that, but there it is. So because of that, I've broken them up for the sake of posting. Some segments will be longer, others will be shorter, we'll have to see. (I'll be honest, this will likely read better in its full form, but I didn't want to leave you guys with nothing! I enjoy participating in the Phandom too much to leave it entirely in favour of full publishing).

But anyway, I hope you enjoy and whether or not you choose to purchase this or simply read it in installments, please review and above all, _enjoy!_

* * *

i

She had not meant to lose it.

The halls backstage were always rather forlorn after the hum and excitement of a performance. Some still milled about, muttering their discontent at being forced to work late in their respective fields, some rigging having come loose during the performance and a costume torn when the lead was a bit too vigorous in his movements.

Christine typically returned home fairly quickly, her agreement to join her fellow chorus members for a drink infrequent. For all her love of the stage, Christine held a private life. Her apartment was simple but well cared for; despite its rather shabby exterior. It was smaller than the one she had shared with her father—barely more than a single room without much space to differentiate any separate uses. But it was hers, and she appreciated the solitude after long days spent rehearsing at the opera house.

Years ago, she had indulged her father in his many fantasies that she would achieve greatness here. But now it was all she could do to continue in her singing even at this level. Her heart would ache with remembrance as she recalled her father's smiling face, his many encouragements as he winked at her from the pit below, his cherished violin still pressed against his throat as she searched out his approval.

But now he was gone, and she was alone, but for his wedding band that she kept safely upon her thumb during each performance.

Except, it had not been safe. Not when after the final curtain—when she had returned her costume to the racks and donned her street clothes once more—did she realize it was missing.

Christine cursed herself for such carelessness, anxiety pulling taut at her belly as she worried at her now bare thumb. She would not be so foolish in future. Once it was again in her possession, she would put it on a chain about her neck, where surely it would be secure and protected from her recklessness. Perhaps it was best for it to be tucked away in a drawer along with the rest of her cherished mementos of her family, but even such a consideration sent a pang of loss through her and she quickly dismissed it.

She would simply have to find it and use better precautions against its loss.

She scoured the stage, earning more than one disgruntled glance as the cleaners entered, readying to purge the platforms of the scuffs and marks well earned by the many dancing feet.

"Please, have you seen a ring around here?"

The man—Jack was it?—grunted, pulling his cart nearer, never fully tearing his eyes from his work. "Haven't seen one. Check lost and found, or maybe with the prop master. Coulda been picked up by accident."

Christine managed a mumbled, "Thank you," before she scurried off, her hope plummeting as she made her way to the front office. She tried not to think about how any number of people could have picked it up and pocketed it for themselves, either unknowing or uncaring that it meant something so important to another.

The ticket office was closed, and with it the lost and found box was locked away as well. And so with barely a hope left, Christine made her way down the many steps toward the prop department. It was always rather depressing down there—forgotten scenery lending an ominous feel coupled with the many layers of dust and cobwebs that clung to the lesser used articles.

Thankfully it was not necessary for her to go there often. The prop master was an old and rather unpleasant man that she thought best avoided whenever possible, his trips up to the stage during rehearsals a bit of a trial as he snapped and glared at any who came too close.

But for her papa's ring, she would face him with all the courage she could muster. And perhaps only the slightest bit of trembling if he was especially cross about her intrusion.

"Hello?" she called out nervously as she continued down toward the lower levels of the theatre. Great freight elevators would transport the larger pieces up to the stage for performances, but the stairs themselves were creaky and the stairwell dim, and Christine was fairly convinced that a great many safety codes would admonish the entire structure as she tripped yet again. Eventually the stairs evened and she crept along a passage that at least looked a bit more promising. Unlike its counterparts, it had a few lights on overhead, suggesting that there might be someone milling about as they organized the props for the next performance.

"I don't mean to interrupt," she tried again, this time a bit more forcefully. "I was just wondering if you'd found something of mine when the stage was being cleared."

A mild thump was the only reply followed by a muffled sort of groan, and though her heart sped at the unexpected response, she followed the sound regardless. While she was not particularly close with any of the staff here—not even her fellow chorus members, she would be glad of the company at the moment. The many shadows wrought too many tricks on her frayed nerves, and should her father's ring truly be lost, she would at least like to know that she had exhausted all potential spots it might have been stashed before going home.

She turned to the right, the light a bit dimmer but the sounds continuing, muffled yet insistent as she drew closer. Had the prop master injured himself? She hurried a bit at the possibility, fearing that one of the heavy sets had fallen on him and he was unable to call for help.

Christine did not expect to find not one figure, but two amongst the many props.

She did not expect to see a man struggling for breath as a rope was tightened about his neck, his fingers grasping and clutching as they fruitlessly tried to find purchase beneath the bite of the noose.

And she was not prepared to see a figure at the other end, holding the rope steady as he strung the man high amongst the scenery, a morbid display for the next person who walked past.

Except that person was her.

And she viewed it all with an unflinching numbness.

It could not possibly be real.

Could it?

Time held little meaning as she stared, her throat too tight to manage a scream or even a plea for the man's life above her, her eyes flicking to the dark figure below when his victim's struggles eased in what she assumed meant death.

Terror seized her. She tried to muffle the sob that threatened to overtake her as the magnitude of what she's witnessed settles over her, but still it escapes, the figure's gaze settling upon her.

He must have only been a man; even in her fear her mind could not fully accept her initial impression.

For as soon as he regarded her, she felt as if Death himself was so coolly staring at her.

She had seen a corpse before, having been escorted to the county morgue to identify her father when news of the mugging had reached her. He had not looked like himself, his once lively features too still, too cold and waxen as she managed only a disbelieving nod that it was indeed her papa who laid there.

But as her attention briefly strayed to the man still hanging so horribly above her, she knew that, while violent, her father's death had been far more peaceful than this had been. His face was red and swollen, as if all the capillaries had ruptured during his last few moments of life, lending a truly macabre scene to the beholder.

And suddenly his murderer was taking a measured step toward her.

And though she had not found her voice, she at least had found the ability to run.

Run she did.

Back through the towering backdrops and the dusty furniture, back up to the stage and _people_ who could perhaps stay the man from committing the same atrocity against her.

The man with his terrible black mask and eyes that did not seem to be there at all except for the deep awareness that settled over her when he'd noted her for the first time.

She burst through the stairwell still running, fear making her breath come in anxious pants as she moved toward the more populated areas.

Only to run into a something tall and firm in her blind need to escape.

And this time a scream tore from her throat as she reeled backward, certain that at any moment she would feel the cut of the noose about her neck. She shut her eyes tightly so she would not have to see—so that perhaps he could not see _her_ if she could just stop screaming…

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Her eyes flew open at the familiar voice, and she swallowed down another shriek as she recognized the man before her, her cheeks flushing crimson as she realized her error.

And the more consuming desire to fling herself into his arms.

But no matter what her secret desires might have been, that was not her relationship with Raoul de Chagny.

They had been friends once, back when they were younger and brought to the theatre during rehearsals—his elder brother tending to business as one of the primary financial backers to the opera, and she during the summers when school was out and with it her supervision.

They would roam the many seats, testing where they liked best, arguing their cases admirably and finally agreeing that the private boxes on the upper levels were the most exciting. He had even dared her to enter the Ghost's box, promising her a very large bit of candy if she could last five minutes inside without incurring his wrath, but she had adamantly refused, even if he did call her chicken after. If she angered the Ghost, he might make _her_ one as well, and that would leave her papa all alone now that her mama was dead.

And she wouldn't be the cause of that for anything in the world.

Though she did refuse to speak to him for a week after his frequent teasing began to hurt her feelings.

But then he'd grown older, and playing with his young friend was less appealing, and though she still harbored sweet fondness for her childhood playmate, there was little recognition on his part now even as they passed one another in the halls.

Except there was no mistaking that she held his attention now. "Are you all right?" he asked, his hands held upward in a placating manner. "Did something happen?"

Christine choked out an incredulous laugh that was more sob than anything. "A man is dead, I don't know who."

Raoul's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze shifting the way she'd come as if to ascertain the truth of her statement through sight alone. "Are you hurt?" His tone was mild and compassionate, and as her arms came about herself—the closest thing to a hug she was to receive, she was sure of it—she did not know how to answer.

"Can we go back to the stage? I... he might find us here."

And hurt not only her, but Raoul as well. She swallowed thickly at the thought.

Raoul nodded and gestured for her to follow him, the hallways growing more familiar as they neared the auditorium. The cleaning crew was still hard at work, and Christine was glad of their presence. The more people, the less likely it would be that a killer would attempt to harm them all.

"Better?"

Christine nodded.

Raoul sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, eying her speculatively. "A man's dead you say? Where?"

Christine cleared her throat in an effort to make her voice work properly. "In the prop room. I... I walked in and... and a man was... was..." Her voice failed her as she remembered the horrors she had seen, and Raoul looked at her with sympathy before producing a trim black phone from his pocket.

"Okay. I'm going to call the police and they can at least send someone to check it out. Why don't you sit down? You look about ready to faint."

Christine relented and sank onto one of the plush theatre seats, a feeling of detachment settling over her as she watched Raoul place his call, explaining the need for a an officer to come and investigate. What if there was nothing there? She was certain that what she'd witnessed had been no figment of her imagination, but if the murderer suddenly hid the body—if even now he was removing all evidence of his existence, then no one would believe her...

Would she get in trouble if the police came and there was no longer a body?

She tucked her legs up and curled in on herself, her chin resting on her knees as she stared blankly down at the floor—a forgotten program looking back at her.

"They'll be here in a few minutes. They... they ask that you not go anywhere until then."

Christine nodded, and she startled when suddenly a hand was on her shoulder, Raoul coming to sit in the seat beside her. "Do you want me to stay with you? I will, you know, if you're scared."

Christine wanted to scoff at that. Of course she was scared. She'd seen a man murdered and his killer was likely even now waiting to corner her so she could be next. But it was difficult to look at Raoul—with his compassionate eyes so empty of recognition. Many times she considered reminding him of who she was. Of who she had been. But a very great part of her wanted _him_ to know of her of his own cognizance, without any prodding on her part.

To know that she meant as much to him as he once had to her.

She felt the tears begin to prickle once more and she shook her head. "You don't have to. You've already done enough." Her voice sounded strained and hoarse and she winced, thinking of what a terrible addition she would be next rehearsal.

Tea with honey. That was what she needed. But instead she now had to stay until some officers came, only to then probably be arrested for making a false report once the murderer cleared the scene.

She shivered and Raoul frowned, leaning back into his seat and withdrawing his hand from her. "I think I'll stay, at least until they arrive. You're clearly not all right."

And even despite her slight resentment, she was grateful for the company. Even as a great part of her still feared that a masked figure would appear before them with his terrible noose, ready to extinguish both their lives as easily as he had that other man's.

* * *

Sooo... there we have it! (And since I give this assurance in all my stories, do not worry. Raoul is not going to be a big part of this story.) So who's ready for more?

Along that vein, I have a question for all of you. Would you prefer set posting dates, or if I set a review goal and when it's hit, you promptly receive a new chapter? Which would you prefer?

Cast your vote, share you thoughts, I love to hear from you!


	2. Chapter 2

Here we go, another installment! Thanks to all who reviewed (and purchased copies! To those individuals in particular, I would be incredibly grateful if you could leave reviews on Amazon as well!)

Anyway, for a while I think we'll stick with Monday/Thursday updates to ensure some consistency. So without further ado...

Onward!

* * *

ii

Christine had little concept of time, but it did not seem overly long before three men came towards them. Two were in uniform, their badges still readily visible even in the slightly dim lights of the theatre. The third, a man of middling height in a trim tan trench coat, made the introductions first. "Miss, I'm Detective Abdul Nadir, and these are Officers Mitchum and Grady. You say that you've witnessed a murder here?"

She was grateful that he made no attempt to shake her hand, and she untwined her limbs to sit properly as she offered confirmation. "Yes," she affirmed, her voice shaking only slightly.

The detective's eyes glinted oddly. "Can you direct my officers as to the location of this event?"

Christine blanched. "You want me to go back down there?"

He took the other vacant seat beside hers and patted her shoulder in what she assumed was intended to be a soothing manner. "Not if you don't want to; if you could simply supply directions I'm sure that will do."

Christine swallowed, wanting nothing more than to forget the entire horrible experience and pretend there _was_ no prop department for her to so foolishly have ventured into. But the sooner she spoke to them, the sooner she could be home—cocooned in a pile of blankets as she relied on childhood comforts to frighten away her nightmares. For nothing could touch her if her head was beneath the blankets. Nothing could see her, nothing could happen.

And she very much wanted to believe that now.

She supplied as detailed a description as she could of the path she had taken, and Raoul offered to show them the door she had come through lest they make a wrong turn in the hallway, negating her instructions.

Christine watched them go with grim resignation. Either they would return and confirm that the dreadful deed had taken place, or they would chastise her for telling falsehoods.

At the moment the latter seemed far more appealing.

"Now, miss, can you tell me your name?"

"Christine Daaé," she answered automatically, her thoughts still on the men currently making their way to the lower levels. She shuddered to think of it.

"Now, Miss Daaé," the detective continued, pulling out a small device and holding it before her. "We can continue this interview back at the station, or we can do so here. Whatever would make you most comfortable. But it would be helpful to both of us if I could record your testimony to ensure its accuracy." He offered a wry smile. "And so you do not have to repeat yourself. Is that acceptable to you?"

Christine hesitated, unsure if there was any reason to object. Did she need a lawyer?

"I didn't do anything," she assured herself, the detective's dark eyebrows rising as he caught her mumbled words.

"I never suggested you did."

Christine frowned. "Then why would I need to go to the station? Am I going to be arrested?"

The detective sighed, his thumb hovering over the record button, before he replaced the device in his coat pocket. "Miss Daaé... have you heard of the Phantom?"

Christine blinked. "The Ghost? Of course. Everyone that works here has heard about him."

Detective Nadir grimaced. "And what have you heard? That he's simply a specter? A curse upon this theatre?"

Christine shrugged, wondering at the relevance of his question. "Theatre people are often a superstitious lot. There were tales of him when I was just a girl and my… my father was working here. And what man would actually spend his life haunting an opera house?"

"What kind of man, indeed," the detective replied, that strange glint in his eyes once again. Again he pulled the recorder and nodded toward her. "Do I have permission to tape this?"

An uneasy feeling had settled in her stomach, but still she nodded, though at his prompt she gave a vocal, "Yes."

For the sake of the accuracy, he voiced her full name and their current location, before bidding her to recount her past experiences of the last hour.

Christine thought she might be sick.

It was one thing to be aware of what had transpired—the vivid images having not left her consciousness since first she had spied the man struggling for breath—but to have to describe them... to put into words the way she felt, the details of his face for the sake of consistency and potential identification...

It was all too much.

"Your father's ring?" he remarked eventually, and Christine realized she had been stroking her bare thumb in an effort to find some small comfort. Tears welled when she remembered once more that it was lost.

"I just wanted it back," she explained helplessly. "That was all. I didn't... I didn't mean for the rest to happen."

Detective Nadir gave her hand a sympathetic pat. "We'll keep an eye out for it," he promised, but Christine felt little hope in the matter. It was gone, and she would have to accept it. Even if the very thought sent a lance of pain through her heart.

It was with great relief that the officers and Raoul reappeared, their faces solemn and Raoul's holding an extra measure of understanding when he looked to Christine. "No one should have to see that."

So, the masked figure had left the body after all. Christine didn't know if she was grateful for his carelessness or not. At the moment she could only nod apathetically, fully ready to return home. Her body ached in strange ways, as if she had suffered a great strain—her muscles overly tense.

Tea. With honey. And perhaps a bath. To wash this entire horrid day off her.

"Can I go home now?" she asked the detective, interrupting his instructions to the officers. Any other day and she would have been sorry for her rudeness. But not today. She couldn't manage even that.

Detective Nadir had risen to speak quietly with his fellow policemen, but he returned to her side, his expression earnest. "I know you're tired and upset. But the more information we have, the sooner we can bring that man to justice."

Christine closed her eyes, feeling trapped and thoroughly overwhelmed. She didn't have anything else to offer. She had told him of creeping into the room—of how the man had looked as he died, of the tightness of the rope, of the figure whose gaze had chilled her so completely.

And now she wanted to be home.

Christine rose from her seat, her resolve growing. "And I'll be happy to help more tomorrow. But right now... right now I need to go home. _Please_ ," she tacked on at the end, trying to appeal to any compassion he might have for her state.

The detective frowned, glancing at the men about her before sighing. "Tomorrow then."

Gladdened by the sudden reprieve, Christine began to walk past everyone and head for the exit, but a sudden hand upon her arm gave her pause. "Miss Daaé," the detective stated almost apologetically. "Where do you live?"

Christine's gaze flickered to Raoul, a moment's recognition going through him. She looked away.

"Not far. I usually take the bus if I don't feel like walking."

The detective glanced toward one of his officers and gestured him forward. "I'd like for Officer Grady to be allowed to escort you home."

Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Detective Nadir cut her off with a pointed look. "You need protection, Miss Daaé…"

She tugged her arm away and took another step toward the doors. "What I need is a cup of tea and a hot bath and to just forget all of this! And having an officer at my apartment is just going to..." her hands balled into fists as she tried to keep from crying.

The detective eased her into the closest seat, pulling out a phone from his pocket. She glanced at it wearily, but quickly averted her attention when she saw yet another gruesome figure flash before the screen.

"Murdered. By the Phantom." He flicked his finger and another man appeared, this one crumpled in an alley, his face as swollen as the man downstairs. "All strangled. No bystanders, no physical evidence. Just a string of murders with loose ties to organized crime. But even here, in your lovely theatre, you know of him. He extorts your managers, he trespasses, he plays his little tricks And now… now he has killed one of your own. And you, Miss Daaé," he leaned a bit closer, and Christine thought if he showed her one more body she might start screaming again. "You are the first witness we have that this man even exists. You know his height, his build. If I get you a sketch artist you might even remember more of his features."

"He wore a mask," she protested lamely.

The detective smiled ruefully. "You may not have seen his face, but you may rest assured that he knows yours. Do you think a man so careful in his line of work would leave you unharmed?"

Christine paled, her early concerns returning tenfold. She wasn't safe. Not here, not at home. And if this detective proved correct, she may never be safe again until this... this Phantom was put behind bars.

"What do you want me to do?" She hated how weak her voice sounded, how despondent, but already she felt lost in a world that was suddenly darker—more desperate.

And she hated it.

"You can start by letting my officer take you home. You live alone? Your young man doesn't live with you?"

Christine flushed and shook her head, not even bothering to look in Raoul's direction. "He's isn't mine, so no, he doesn't. And I don't have a roommate."

The detective sighed. "Grady, you'll stay stationed outside her home then. I'm going to contact the marshal's office and see if we can arrange a more permanent solution."

Christine's head jerked upward. "Marshals?"

He gave her a placating smile. "Let's not worry about that yet. You'll only need Witness Security if we can't find him, and I'm feeling rather hopeful tonight."

Christine wished she agreed.

Raoul tried to speak to her as the officer ushered her out toward his squad car, but Christine was too tired and overwrought to pay him much heed. "Just... rest up, and we'll talk at the next rehearsal, all right?"

Christine glanced back at him, a tremulous smile on his lips and she swallowed thickly, uncertain how she felt about his sudden interest. A very great part was elated, yet the rest of her... she grew only more weary.

"Ma'am?"

Officer Grady held the door open and she hurried out, the night having grown cold during her late night sojourn at the theatre. Doubtless the managers would still have to be called so they could fret and fuss as the prop department suddenly transformed into a restricted area. There was much still to be done tonight, but not for her.

She was done.

It was awkward driving with the officer. For a moment she worried he would put her in the back, behind the heavy cage that offered him protection from any arrested miscreants. But instead he held open the front passenger door, waiting patiently for her to catch up before taking his own place and turning on the heat.

Christine couldn't bring herself to muster much in the way of conversation, nor did he prove overly effortful in attempt, other than to ask for directions to her residence. His frown deepened when she revealed the neighborhood. Christine shifted uncomfortably in her seat and turned her attention out the window, the city lights blurring either from his speed or from her mind turning fuzzy. Possibly both.

"This it?" he asked less than ten minutes after their trip began.

Christine blinked dazedly before her eyes focused on her building. "Yes," she confirmed, her hand already on the handle. "Thanks for the ride."

"Ma'am," he began hesitantly before she could exit his vehicle. "Maybe you'd let me come up for a moment? Make sure that... all is as it should be?"

Christine's breath caught at the implication, and she turned back to look at him. "You think he could be inside?"

His lips thinned. "I wouldn't want to take any chances. Once you're safe inside _alone_ , and your doors and windows are locked up, I'll be right out here if you need me." He pulled out a card from one of his uniform pockets. "Just have to call."

Christine nibbled at her lip, torn between gratitude and abject terror that such a gesture should be required at all. "Come on then," she finally choked out, trusting that he'd follow as she made her way to the front door, fishing her key from her pocket as she did so.

She felt self-conscious as they made their way up to her apartment, certain every noise or bit of dirt clinging to a floorboard would confirm that even in selecting a dwelling of her own she proved incapable. She certainly couldn't be expected to fend off a murderer, nor was she able to help a man before said murderer killed him...

Her apartment was on the second floor, and after inserting her key, the officer bade her take a step backward. "No roommates, right? No pets?"

"No..."

He removed his gun from its holster—a startling thing to be sure—before he slowly opened the door, his hand seeking and finding the light switch before he entered.

What would he find?

Christine waited with what she hoped was a semblance of patience until the officer emerged once more, studying his expression carefully as he emerged. She relaxed as he proceeded to return his gun to his belt and gave her a satisfied nod. "All clear."

It felt odd to have a man in her apartment when at last she was allowed to enter. She had not lived here with her papa, and she coveted her solitude too much to entertain. Not that any would have relished being in such close quarters anyway.

"Thank you again, then," Christine prompted, hoping that he took notice that she hovered by the door so that he might exit. She felt bad for her reaction, but he made her nervous. She knew he was there to protect her, but his uniform was intimidating, even as his eyes were kind.

"You be careful now, all right? If you hear anything or just get scared, call me. I'll come check it out."

Christine flushed, but agreed, wondering if she'd ever be able to do such a thing when there was a strong possibility that she would appear foolish at the end of it. A man like they described, he wouldn't really bother with her, would he?

"Officer Grady," she called out just as he was about to shut the door.

"Yes?" he answered, his head poking through the door but not crossing the threshold again. She was glad of his consideration.

"What did the detective mean by 'Witness Security'?"

He sighed and glanced fleetingly at the hallway, and she wondered if the answer was so distressing that he hesitated to answer. "You probably know it as Witness Protection. If the State deems your testimony valuable, and you're in imminent danger because of it... You'd be relocated. Given a new name, a new everything."

Christine paled. "I... I don't want that."

Officer Grady grimaced. "No, I don't imagine you would." He gave her apartment a dubious glance, and despite herself Christine rankled at his obvious disapproval.

"Do I have a choice? If it... if it came to that?"

"You always have a choice, ma'am. But sometimes it comes down to what will make sure you're alive to make the next one."

* * *

Sooo... Looks like a certain Detective has some pretty nasty things to say about someone... At least take it to the station! Think he's right to push her into testifying?

Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

Iiiii forgot it was posting day! Usually this begins much later on but... apparently not! (So if I'm ever late, feel free to start sending the disgruntled messages. Sometimes I need a little prompting).

Anyway, let's introduce a certain someone, shall we?

Onward!

* * *

iii

Christine was certain she would go mad when she was forbidden from leaving her apartment the next three days. She had attempted to do so the next morning, the food dwindling in her cupboards—her regular shopping day making a quick venture a necessity. But a new officer had stopped her at the front door of her building, requesting firmly that she return inside.

She had argued steadily, but he merely gave her a weary glance and pulled her slightly to the side when one of her neighbors tiredly mounted the steps, giving them both a suspicious glance as they continued into the building beyond.

"Ma'am, I don't want to alarm you, but Officer Grady saw a suspicious person on the fire escape last night." Christine paled, all argument leaving her.

True to her earlier intention, a hot bath had been drawn. Her apartment did not boast a very large tub, only a narrow offering that doubled as a shower. When she'd first been shown it as a potential living space, it was in a sad need of a good scrubbing, making the landlord rather dubious at her enthusiasm for it at all. But Christine had always been fond of baths, and most of the places she could afford had only small stand up showers. She'd worked hard to clean it, using a numerous amount of powders and bleaches until it was ready to receive an actual occupant, but the result was well worth it.

It was not the first time she had thought so, but as she sank into the hot water, a large, soothing cup of tea held safely between her hands, she welcomed these small luxuries after her harrowing day. And while she liked to think she only wept a very little bit as the horror and the fear settled over her once more, her tears and the relative exhaustion of the day had made her sleep sound when she at last went to bed.

Only now to discover that an unknown someone—or perhaps not so very unknown at all, she realized with a shiver—had come very close to hurting her after all.

"You caught him?" she asked, hopeful but not expectant that they'd done so.

The officer shook his head. "When he approached, the man disappeared." Christine frowned in disappointment, but the man pressed on. "Just give Detective Nadir a few more days to get things sorted with the marshals. Even if they refuse, the attempt last night will probably grant you temporary protection within the department." His expression turned firm. "You're going to be safe, ma'am. He's not going to get to you."

Christine wished she believed him.

She'd called the choir director, worried that she was missing work and they would think her derelict in her responsibilities, but he dismissed her concerns. "The whole place is in an uproar. Joseph Buquet is the man dead you know—the scene changer? Useless wretch of one, in any case, but with all the police and crime scene tape about the place, you'd think the president himself had been murdered downstairs."

Christine smiled softly. "What about rehearsals?"

The choir master snorted. "If you think I can wrangle all these nitwits when they're busy trying to catch glimpses of the body, you think too highly of me. Call me again in a couple days and we'll set it right." His voice softened. "Just rest. You've been through a lot, okay? But your place here is secure, even if you need to take the week off." He sighed deeply, his attention already drifting. "It's not like we can have another performance until all this mess gets cleared up in any case."

After assuring him that she would, Christine hung up, feeling slightly better for having spoken to him. But a queasiness in her stomach had come from the conversation, one that did not settle as she huddled on her couch, curled toward the end of it. She could easily imagine the excitement there. More experienced members finding the hidden nooks and passages so they could watch the police in their work, trying to find a bit of news that could further stimulate their fellow members.

But she had lived it. And she found no pleasure in the entire experience.

She wondered what Raoul would say when at last she was allowed to return. In some of her daydreams he would apologize profusely for his denseness, before telling her that she was the girl he had always loved. But in reality, she wondered if she would be lucky enough for a smile from him, perhaps a bit more familiarity given their past history.

He'd been about to kiss her once, she remembered sadly. It was fairly soon before he had stopped coming to see her altogether, and her heart had sped and she had smiled at him encouragingly. But then the moment was broken as he had laughed nervously, running a hand through his then longer hair, claiming he had somewhere he simply had to be.

She had seen him only a few more times after that. And each time he was a little more distant, and with it, seeing him caused a little more pain.

Food had appeared on her doorstep a few days before. Not the usual brands she would purchase, but she was grateful when she looked out the window, and Officer Grady waved as he returned to his vehicle. Evidently he was the unfortunate soul who was charged with watching her at night, but her sympathy did not negate her gratitude.

Not when he had been the one to spot her would-be intruder.

But four days in her apartment was growing to be too much for her, even with her food and hot baths and generous cups of tea. Not when nightmares plagued her sleep, and worries troubled her waking hours so thoroughly that at times she nearly trembled with them.

She did not expect the knock upon the door. The officers typically called before they came up, so as not to worry her they'd said. They also called at regular intervals to ensure she was well.

She frowned. Detective Nadir was arranging to have her brought to the station tomorrow to finish giving her statement and meet with a sketch artist—although she had been vehement that he would get nothing more from her on that front—but perhaps plans had changed.

However, she was not so foolish as to open the door without first ascertaining who was behind it.

"Who's there?" she called, going on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. Instead of a view of a man's face, an unfamiliar badge obstructed her view. "United States Marshal Service. Open the door."

Christine frowned, but obeyed. Detective Nadir could have at least called and told her that his attempt at securing their assistance was successful.

And that she needed to pack.

She swung the door open and was immediately struck by the great height of the man in her doorway. His features were perfectly plain, and he tucked his badge back onto the belt of his black suit. He waited patiently as she had not given him leave to enter, and she was heartened to see that despite his brusque command, he was capable of some gentlemanly behavior. "Do you want to come in?"

He nodded, she thought somewhat awkwardly, his head ducking as he seemed to shy away from her perusal and stood in the midst of her tiny kitchen, shutting and locking the door behind him. Christine settled on the couch. "I don't meet with Detective Nadir until tomorrow, so I didn't know you were coming."

The man grimaced at that and leaned against the counter. "Things tend to proceed quickly in this field. I am... sorry that you were not given adequate time to prepare."

Christine sighed, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "Can I be honest with you?"

The... marshal? Was that what they were called? merely blinked at her, but she took his silence as permission to continue. "I don't know if I want to go. I love the theatre and to leave..." Leaving meant giving up one of the last things she had shared with her papa, and to abandon it so readily...

But if her father knew that she held a building—a job—above her safety, he would scowl and call her a ridiculous girl and insist she do whatever was necessary to ensure her that she was protected.

He shifted, his arms crossing over his chest. "Do you think that the Phantom would forget you so easily?"

Christine nibbled at her lip. "If he even _was_ the Phantom," she reminded him without any great force. "Or if the Phantom really did all those things the detective said."

The man seemed rather surprised at that. "You think otherwise?"

Christine shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that I saw some horrific things four nights ago—first in the lower levels and then on the detective's phone. It's not my job to determine whether it was the same man who committed such horrible crimes."

"No," he agreed. "It is your job to be safe. Which is why I am here."

Christine regarded him again. He was thin, but held an intimidating aura that could not be ignored. Yet his overall build did not suggest a particular ability towards protection. Perhaps it was rude though to doubt him in his work.

"Where would we be going? And would I... would I actually be going with you? Or is there a team of people? Detective Nadir didn't explain many of the details and I'm afraid I didn't think to research anything."

"Nor should you have to," the marshal confirmed. "You will be traveling with me, and I will escort you out of the city. Our exact location has yet to be selected, so I'm afraid that we may be relegated to a series of temporary dwellings for the time being, until you may be more permanently settled."

Christine eyed him quizzically. "Temporary dwellings?"

He smiled ever so slightly. She much preferred it to his grim visage. "Hotels."

"Oh." She gave another little sigh. "I always liked hotels..."

Not that she had chance to be in many. But the idea... the novelty of them had always appealed to her, and perhaps if she looked at all of this as a kind of adventure, she just might find it bearable.

"What about all my things?"

The man cast a dubious glance about her apartment. "Whatever you do not wish to take will be placed in storage until after you testify. I am afraid that your lease here will have to default." His expression clearly indicated that he thought such a happening was no great pity.

Christine looked around, before slowly rising from the couch. She would not argue with him as to the merits of her living space, but instead knelt beside the bed and pulled out her largest suitcase from the depths beneath.

It was a distinctly odd experience, packing all her most treasured possessions and having to leave behind the rest. She took clothing of course, quizzing the marshal now and again regarding climates and necessities, which he would answer to the best of his ability—which to Christine was sorely lacking.

Men.

Evidently a badge did not automatically improve their descriptive abilities. "I take it you will have nothing but suits to wear," she finally grumbled in frustration, shoving in a pair of boots in case the weather turned sooner than expected.

The marshal made no reply.

When at last she was satisfied—or as satisfied as she could manage under the circumstances—Christine surveyed the apartment, a lump forming in her throat as she thought of leaving. _Really_ leaving.

An adventure. Where things will be new and different, and she will not have to be a prisoner to these walls because she will be safe. And no masked figure would live in the darkness ready to pounce.

"I think I'm ready," she told him, hoping she was speaking truthfully.

He nodded once, his hand delving into his pocket. "I was... I believe this belongs to you."

Any composure she had managed to achieve dissolved when she saw the beloved keepsake resting in his palm. Her papa's ring.

She gasped and took it with trembling fingers. "Where did you..."

The man shifted again, his eyes looking rather alarmed at the few tears that managed to escape. "I believe it was discovered at the crime scene. One of the fool stagehands must have delivered it there unthinkingly. I thought you would not wish to leave without it, and it would do no good to anyone in an evidence locker."

"Thank you," she breathed, smoothing her thumb over the gold before nearly slipping it onto her thumb. But only nearly.

She hurried back to her suitcase and pulled out her small container full of jewelry—most of it her mother's. She had only one chain, but it would serve well enough. She would not lose it again.

"Now I'm really ready."

He took her suitcase from her as he escorted her downstairs, a dark SUV parked in front of her apartment, the familiar police car a little ways away. She waved at Officer Grady, wishing she could say goodbye to him properly, but the marshal was looking about the night with thorough awareness, and she realized it could be dangerous to remain out of doors too long. So she climbed into the passenger side, her heart pounding rapidly as her nerves began to build.

He situated her suitcase in the back before taking his place in the front, and she asked the question that she should have long before.

"What should I call you? Marshal?"

He glanced at her briefly, starting the car and pulling out into the night.

"You may call me Erik."

* * *

Sooo... looks like our Erik has arrived! Or is it our Erik? Suspicious with that perfectly normal face of his. Hmmm...

Anybody confused yet? Or do you have it all worked out?


	4. Chapter 4

A big thank you to _lkov_ for reminding me to update today! I thought of it this morning and then... poof! A longer segment today, and one from a different perspective...

Onward!

* * *

iv

This was not the first time Erik questioned his own sanity. And, if he was truthful with himself, he doubted it would be the last. Of that he was certain. But as Christine took her place beside him in the vehicle, perhaps not without a bit of trepidation, but no outright fear, no cowering, no _running_...

He could not bring himself to change his mind and take her back.

Despite their most disastrous first meeting so recently, Erik had not been unaware of Christine's presence within his theatre. A proper manager knew all of his staff, even the most lowly—and most assuredly, any children that were allowed to roam the auditorium and potentially distract his musicians. He had not considered himself an integral part of the opera then, however, and his interventions had been minimal—the Opera Ghost simply satisfied to have a safe and private residence beneath the theatre, the productions of sufficient quality that, while imperfect, they were pleasantly tolerable.

And the little girl with her big eyes and bright smile was not hurting anything, so he tolerated her presence with all the magnanimity he could muster.

Perhaps even when he had heard the small Christine and her father entertaining some of the others with a duet, he considered her future potential. Her voice held the reedy quality that most children had yet to grow from, but she was worthy of notice, of his attention...

Except then there was an empty seat within the first violins, and the girl—barely a woman by that time—who had auditioned and been hired for the chorus was merely a shell. She managed the notes proficiently enough, but there was little joy, little enthusiasm that would make him believe she could achieve any semblance of true greatness.

That she could master _his_ music.

On more than one occasion he had considered bringing her under his tutelage, that if he could coax her voice to fulfill all of the potential he had glimpsed as a child, it would be one of his greatest masterpieces.

But he thought he had more time to decide; until suddenly, he did not.

Killing Buquet had given him no great pleasure, but it proved an unfortunate necessity—one that he never had intended for Christine to witness. The man had served him on occasion, his drunkenness and lack of scruples allowing him to take the position, but also addling his greater brain functions when he threatened to extort Erik for far more than his petty assistance was worth.

Erik's role as the Phantom, of the Angel of Death, was one he tried to forget—that of the Opera Ghost was far more satisfying. People hired him for their petty reasons. Eventually he had made a point of refusing to know the reasons for his charge, as more often than not they were so trivial as to border on the absurd. A wife's lover, a sworn member of the mafia turning to the police… all things that could have been dealt with far more cleanly.

And he resented that life—working as a petty assassin, preying on his hurts and exploiting them so that a temporary inconvenience could be defeated. All of it sickened him, so he had set aside the Phantom and embraced the Opera Ghost. But that too was now no more.

Which left only Erik, U.S. Marshal and current protector of Christine.

She intrigued him, which was more than could be said for many women—enough for him to overcome his natural trepidation in order to risk interaction with her.

But perhaps even in this he wore a disguise.

He had overheard her once telling another chorus girl of an angel—one that her papa had assured her would come to guard and care for her if ever he should be absent. An Angel of Music. Erik had considered taking the role upon himself when he thought of tutoring her. It would be a fascinating venture, the perils of modernity making success so very unlikely. Fewer believed in the paranormal, and while a touch naïve—her very presence here with him a testament to that fact, as she did not think to question the man claiming to be the officer of the law—but she was not stupid. A challenge to be sure.

And if he _was_ to succeed...

But here he sat beside her now, wearing one of his most elaborate disguises yet.

The mask was one of his most recent acquisitions, one that appeared to have held under Christine's perusal. It hid the absence of his nose, the deathly pallor of his skin. Made him seem... human.

Yet underneath he still felt as monstrous and unwanted as ever.

But perhaps that mattered just a little less when Christine was able to interact with him with so little effort on her part.

He glanced at her for a moment as she nibbled at her lip, her posture slightly tense.

So perhaps _some_ effort was required on her part.

"Are you cold?"

She looked up at him in surprise before shaking her head. "No, just… just thinking."

Erik frowned. She did not need to think. He was here now. And unlike Buquet, who had been a loose end that required snipping, he would not do that to her. Not now. Not when she had stared at him with those wide, terrified eyes, and in that moment he had seen every bit the horror he had become. So many times he had assured himself that his actions were justified—that humanity had spurned and rejected him, and it was only natural that he cull some of their numbers in recompense.

But then she had looked at him, had _seen_ him…

And he no longer wanted to be gazed at in such fear. Not when her own had affected him so profoundly, as strange as such an occurrence seemed to him.

He cast another look at her, maneuvering them to the highway out of the city, a part of him relaxing as he did so. He had shown his credentials and the falsified transfer order to the officer outside, and he had been surprised but almost glad of it.

"I worry about her. She seems… she seems very alone. Maybe a new life would be good for her."

Erik had left after that, promising himself that it would be, but not before covertly ensuring the officer would not follow, nor call in her absence for a while yet. It was merely an aerosol spray that caused sleep—he would not taint his abduction of Christine with another death; not unless it was strictly necessary.

And he most definitely had no intention of harming Christine, none at all. Yet he also had no intentions of spending even a day in prison, making all of this quite essential.

He knew that the police investigated the killings, that one detective was even beginning to make sense of certain connections. But to have a witness, especially one so close to his true dwelling…

"Would you care to voice these thoughts? I would like to allay your concerns if I am able."

She worried at her lip again, and Erik allowed her time to continue her _thinking_.

It would be a long drive before they breached the state border, but less before they passed through Nadir's jurisdiction—something he was most concerned about. He kept them going at a steady pace, suppressing his natural inclination to stray toward the left lanes and allow himself the luxury of more speed. But now was not the time to be pulled over. The license plates and his badge were counterfeit products—ones that would hold up to casual scrutiny, but a police check could prove rather ruinous. Erik had told Christine that it was imperative she leave behind her ID and any credit cards, claiming that she could easily be traced through their use.

She had grown increasingly apprehensive and obeyed him, tucking them into a canister full of what he learned were tea bags. Again he measured each of his words to be as truthful as possible. She assumed he meant that the murderous Phantom the detective had convinced her was plotting her demise would use such means to find her, but Erik was more concerned for when the police noted her disappearance and began a search of their own.

"I just..." she finally began, still looking out at the few cars also on the road. "Everything happened so fast. And I... it's all very strange."

Erik's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Would you care to elaborate on what is _strange_?"

If she thought him so, his mask... he did not know what he would do.

Christine sighed, a heavy and troubled sound that did not suit her. "It might not have been the kind of life I'd always dreamed of, but it was mine and I was comfortable. I can't... even remotely picture what things will be like now. Will you be staying with me? Will I have a job? I don't have very many skills beyond what I was doing at the theatre."

Erik doubted that, but didn't press the issue. He was well aware that in a more _traditional_ situation, the protected person would be required to find employment nearly immediately—the program was not for charity, after all. But Erik would decide how much he enjoyed her company before urging her to find a means of procuring her own pay. The prospect of having a companion, one that was clearly bound to him—for her own safety of course—was an interesting one. He was very interested in exploring it further.

But he was not prepared to share such musings with her, so instead he kept his answer carefully construed once more. "We will address the issue of employment when we have settled into our final destination. For now, we are simply traveling a sufficient distance," he did not elaborate as to why; she could draw her own conclusions, "before we will stop for what remains of the night. A hotel should provide any food that you require and then you will sleep. Is that adequate information?"

He had never been charged with comforting a bout of nervousness, and he hoped he had done it adequately. Her frown suggested he had not.

"Will we be... staying in the same room?"

Erik stiffened. He had not considered that. He was not even certain what a true marshal would do in such an instance. How would they offer protection if they were not _there_ to do so? But as he looked at her, watching him so warily, her preference was obvious.

He tried not to be insulted.

"Adjoining rooms would be sufficient," he replied, his tone perhaps a bit curt. "But the door between shall be left ajar so I may hear if anything is amiss."

Mainly hear if the police stormed her room and he could plan their hasty retreat.

"Don't..." Christine began again, before shaking her head, her initial thought truncated. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to question you."

Erik considered the prospect of urging her to speak her mind, finally deciding that it was better to hear her thoughts so he could know what future challenges he faced. "I am charged with your protection, Christine. You may speak freely."

She smiled softly at that, and his reaction to such an expression was a strange one. He would ponder such a thing later.

"Don't the police usually have partners? Someone to help them?"

Erik returned his full attention to the road before him. Finding bits of the truth, that was the key. He was an excellent liar—had always needed to be. But when he had so rashly taken this venture, had decided to abandon the home he had so carefully constructed to go on the run with the woman beside him, he had resolved to be as truthful with her as possible. Within reason.

"I had a partner once," he answered, his words slow and careful. "But he... he took a different path. One that I had no interest in following."

Christine's eyes turned sympathetic. "He retired?"

Erik sighed, partially amused and almost wishing that such were true. "In a manner of speaking."

Nadir had not always been such a pious keeper of the law. The Daroga, Erik had called him in his youth, his tone showing irreverence for his Persian ancestry that would have lauded such a position. So full of hate and spite, they had made Erik callous. Both for the lives he took, and the master that had urged him to begin in the first place. Eventually Nadir had helped him to escape, but such a life was all that Erik had come to know.

The Angel of Death became the Phantom.

And he doubted that the Daroga would show him clemency once again.

Erik shook away such thoughts—they had no place here in this new life.

"I'm sorry, then. That you're stuck taking care of me all by yourself. I don't think I'd be very helpful if... something happened."

Erik smirked at her. "I would not ask it of you. Not when I am fully capable of seeing to both of our safeties unassisted."

Christine rolled her eyes, but she kept smiling, and he was glad to note she took no offense. The notion of her proving _helpful_ in such a dire situation was nearly laughable. From what he had observed of her character, she was a sweetly tempered, quiet girl, that had matured into a reserved young woman. She was not an idle gossip, choosing instead to read a book during her breaks instead of engaging in such foolish talk with the other chorus girls. But that left her rather isolated; the little Giry girl one of the only ones to make more effort to engage her in conversation.

"You could teach me," she suggested. "I could learn to use your gun."

The laughter bubbled forth so quickly that it took Erik a moment to even realize that he was the source of it. It was not something to be found in his underground home, nor his childhood. He did not find it distasteful.

"I question your understanding of officers of the law if you think I could simply hand you my weapon to learn with."

She blushed. "Oh. You'd... you'd get in trouble?"

Not as such, but Erik did not relish the thought of her using one at all. She could so easily injure herself. If she requested to learn to use the Punjab Lasso, at most she could tangle herself, and he could offer ready assistance. Much safer all around.

"If you would truly like to learn a bit of defense, I shall find you a suitable weapon. Not a gun," he amended, seeing her brief excitement at the prospect. He could not allow her to apply for a permit—he could not leave a trail—and he would not allow her to ever be found in possession of one procured by more underhanded methods. While he was certain he could elude the police, he could not predict every contingency. And he most assuredly would not allow Christine to shoulder any blame for any of his actions. And that included being found with a gun with its serial number so carefully removed.

Christine was quiet for a moment, apparently weighing her opinion on his offer. "I just don't want to feel helpless," she murmured, her voice low. "When Officer Grady said about the man on the fire escape," Erik winced, still feeling a measure of mortification at having been noticed by such a lowly policeman, "I realized... if he'd come in, I wouldn't have been able to do anything to stop him. Run maybe, but that's it. And if he's a professional like they say, I probably wouldn't even have been given a chance to do that."

Erik swallowed, not at all liking the turn of her thoughts. He had gone to her, it was true, while he was still yet undecided as to his course of action. It was his initial inclination that had frightened him into such spontaneity.

For a brief moment, he had actually considered the ease in which he could have killed her.

But the realization that he could so think so of such an innocent creature, could actually have stood there noting how her self-imposed isolation would play to his favor...

He was sickened to the core, and instead he had concocted a new plan. One which would hopefully secure them both a satisfactory future.

"Do not discount the importance of fleeing from danger. Those who call it cowardly at least have the good fortune of being alive to do so. Ensure you have that same privilege."

Christine was silent again, but seemed to look more troubled than before. Erik sighed. "Was that the end of your questions?"

"How... how long do you think I'll be gone? I mean, how long will all of this take?"

Erik's lips formed a thin line. A difficult question, to be sure. Her absence bent more upon his whim than anything, as his meticulous nature made for his crimes to hold no physical evidence for the police to find. But the Daroga was clever—well, moderately clever—and Erik had yet to decide quite what he wanted from Christine.

"It is difficult to say," he finally answered, unable or perhaps a bit unwilling to give any clearer response. "There are so many factors."

Christine nodded, turning her attention once more out the window. Erik shifted slightly, unused to the desire to make conversation, but wishing to understand more of what bothered her. "Will you miss it terribly? The people? A... young man, perhaps?"

To his surprise, Christine released a sort of choking laugh. "Why do people assume that Raoul is my boyfriend?" She looked at him hastily. "Sorry, you couldn't have known about that." He most certainly did, and for the oddest reason it had troubled him greatly to see the young patron helping her. Comforting her. "Detective Nadir asked if I lived with this man from the theatre. I ran into him after... well... after finding the..." she looked at him pointedly and he gestured for her to continue. He would prefer she forget all about Buquet as well; there was no further need to mention him. Not when she most assuredly would _not_ be testifying in the future. "We were friends once. I thought even... I thought even that maybe we'd be something more. When we were older, of course." She released a rueful kind of laugh. "He almost kissed me once." Erik's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "But that was years ago, and he doesn't even seem to remember me. Not until someone mentioned my name."

Erik kept his gaze resolutely forward. He had not spied on her as a girl—even he drew such lines as to refrain from stalking children, but he had been skulking about when Raoul had confessed to his brother his growing feelings for the then small Christine—that they had even almost kissed the day previously.

Philippe had been horrified, Christine a few years his junior, and advised him to cease coming to the opera house. "She's just a child still, Raoul! You leave her be until she's grown, and if she still likes you... well, you can pursue her then. But not a moment before! If her father saw..."

Raoul had flushed, his handsome face rather sheepish. Erik thought that he in turn rather hated him. "I wasn't going to _do_ anything with her! She's my friend. And I don't... I don't think I'm ready for any of that stuff anyway."

Philippe sighed and placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Raoul, you're fifteen and things change. Sometimes quickly. And this isn't the girl to start experimenting with."

The boy's eyes narrowed in anger at Philippe's assessment, but eventually he nodded. "Okay, I'll leave her alone."

Philippe smiled with his approval. "Good. Maybe then you'll find a girl your own age."

Erik cared little for what Raoul did so long as he did not go about tainting young girls with his teenage hormones, but Christine now spoke of his absence with such sadness that he almost wished the boy had decided differently.

Almost.

But he did not. Not when that meant she was driving here with him, _talking_ with him. The change was a welcome one.

But he did not like the look on her face, and since he was well aware that she would not be seeing the boy in quite some time, he felt able to offer a small measure of assurance. Her tone suggested that perhaps she shouldered unneeded blame for Raoul's abandonment, and there was one observation at least that he could share with her. "He seems a great deal older than you."

Christine glanced at him sharply, her eyes wide. "Not _that_ much older. Only four years!"

He smiled at her indulgently. "Which by now seems but a trifle, yet I can assure you, the laws dictate that such interactions could have proven disastrous for your dear fellow should he have acted on them."

Christine sank back against the car seat, her mouth slightly open. "I… I'd never thought about it like that. No one ever said it might be inappropriate!"

Erik glanced at her meaningfully. "He had never tried to kiss you before."

Christine's cheeks turned pink and she did not quite meet his gaze. "I thought it was me… that I'd done something wrong and he didn't want to be my friend anymore."

"That is an absurd thought," Erik retorted unthinkingly, his tone allowing no room to conceal his firm belief in his own words. Christine did look at him then, and it was his turn to avoid looking at her. "You seem a charming woman, Christine Daaé. Only a fool would not appreciate your kisses."

He could feel that she continued to stare at him, and embarrassment crept over him for his imprudent tongue. He held no romantic delusions about the woman seated next to him. He was a monster, a creeping figure in black that did all sorts of terrible deeds—the stuff of nightmares. And she...

There was no point focusing on all of her perfections. Not when any such compliments from him would be so distasteful to her. He might have a mask, might be able to shield her from the most gruesome parts of his visage, but he knew how tainted he was inside. Even she must be able to sense it.

"I apologize," he said eventually. "That was unprofessional."

Christine was slow in her reply. "No, you... you don't need to apologize. No one has ever said anything like that to me before."

Erik was ready to grimace—of course, no one had been so foolish and forward in her presence—but he stole a quick glance at her only to see a soft smile playing about her lips.

She was... pleased?

* * *

Sooo... Ever think Erik and Christine would be having _that_ particular conversation? And it does seem our killer and our marshal are one in the same... tsk tsk, Erik, impersonating an officer of the law is a serious business!

Everybody still with me?


	5. Chapter 5

An emotionally trying day (talking a friend through a potential breakup, always how you want to spend your holidays!), but at least I remembered to update! So there's something. A few of you had worked this out already, and a few have pointed out that this story is turning out to be of a... more twisted nature than my previous offerings. I will not argue with you there! But I hope you haven't given up on our couple yet. We have a long way to go yet.

Onward!

* * *

v

Their journey was a silent one for the next few hours, and Erik was bemused to note that eventually Christine's head slumped against the window, her eyes closed and her breath even. She felt comfortable enough to sleep with him near? He both swelled with pride to know of it, while also most seriously questioning her judgment.

They crossed the state border just before midnight, and Erik pulled into the first hotel he could find that seemed comfortable enough. He stared at the sleeping Christine for a full three minutes, debating with himself. If he left her alone, she could run—perhaps she only feigned respite so she would no longer have to speak with him, and in her quiet she had uncovered the full truth. He could take her with him, of course, but it seemed... wrong to wake her.

He settled on locking the car doors behind him, knowing the alarm would alert him should she wake and attempt to leave.

The night manager was seated in an office in the back, and though Erik looked at the little signal bell with distaste, a long forefinger appeared and gave it a single tap. He nearly wanted to cringe at the harsh peel it released.

The woman of middling years had a thin smile and welcoming words for him, her eyes too tired to linger overmuch on the seams of his mask. "Two rooms. Adjoining. And is the kitchen still open?"

If she was surprised by his curt manner, she did not show him. But he supposed if she was a part of the service industry, she was used to dealing with much worse than succinct requests from guests.

"Not for hot meals, but sandwiches or cereal can be brought up to your room if you're hungry. Will that suffice?"

Not for himself, but he was not the one that needed to eat. He was not certain that Christine would either, but he would most assuredly not be starving her while she was with him, and he was not going to start on their very first night. She had shown a willingness to converse with him, but he would not begin to assume that she would voice all of her needs to him—not when their relationship was so very new and doubtless her trust was a fragile thing.

The woman produced two key cards after he had submitted his own credit card for her to scan. The name on it meant nothing to him, a chosen moniker simply from necessity, of which he had several similar conveniences. Once he had relied solely upon cash, but he found that to do so did not allow him all the luxuries blossoming technology had to offer. Why should he hire someone who could turn on him to go to the store when he could simply order the postman to deliver his chosen items to the safety of a P.O. Box?

Some of course required a permanent residence, and while comfortable to the extreme—Erik spared no expense in the construction of his underground home—he did have a few other leases. Just in case.

"Enjoy your stay Mr. Beaumont."

A slight incline of his head was his only reply.

When he opened his door, Christine startled awake, and he was grateful for the reprieve, not at all looking forward to being the one to wake her. Did not people resent those that did so?

"Are we stopping?"

Erik held up their keys. "I am not so heartless as to deprive you proper rest in a real bed. We'll continue on in the morning."

He wanted a few more states between himself and Nadir before he would begin searching for a suitable home for them. And hopefully, by then, he could learn more of Christine's preferences. Perhaps while not his primary goal, he would be... most gratified to know that she could be happy with him. Or maybe happiness was unrealistic. Satisfied? Content?

Erik suppressed a grimace. So long as she kept from crying, from screaming at him and recoiling with horror, that would be a greater success than any he'd had with any of the rest of the female populace.

Christine blinked at him sleepily. "That sounds nice."

He nodded and she opened her door, hopping down from the tall vehicle, nearly stumbling as she did so. Erik frowned. He would help her from now on, assuming she did not find his touch _too_ repulsive. She stretched languidly as he opened the back of the SUV, pulling out her suitcase as well as his own. For holding all of her dearest possessions, as well as the rather startling variety of clothing she thought necessary to bring, her case was surprisingly light. His own was filled with masks and suits, money and weapons.

His suitcase was locked.

"I can carry mine," she insisted hurriedly when she noticed him walking toward the front lobby. He quelled her needless offer with a glance.

The hotel seemed nearly deserted by this time of night, and Erik glanced about in approval. The marble floors were clean and highly polished, the carpets clearly vacuumed quite recently. Christine looked at it all with a kind of awe, strange given the grandeur of her workplace.

The elevator took them up a full five floors before they traversed the long hallway to their respective rooms.

He opened Christine's door first. A large bed dominated the middle of the room, a crisp white duvet covering the bed, with a sign clearly indicating it was freshly laundered. Overall the room was adequate.

He deposited her suitcase on the waiting stand, and would allow her to rifle through it and determine what was needed for sleeping. He could not do _everything_ for her, even if it felt a bit rude to leave her with such a task when she was clearly so exhausted.

"I have been informed that sandwiches and cereal will be provided if you call down to the kitchens." Christine's eyes brightened at that and Erik realized he had been starving her.

He frowned yet again. "You may... inform me if you grow hungry, or if you require the use of..." words failed him and instead he made a vague gesture toward the nearby bathroom. "There is no need for you to travel in discomfort."

Christine blushed and nodded, her eyes straying to the phone. "Don't you... I mean... are you just going to eat in your room?"

Erik gave a little shrug. "I will afford you as much privacy as possible given that this door shall remain ajar." He went to the adjoining passage, unlocked and opened her door, reaching for the ice bucket and repurposing it as a wedge so as to ensure the doorway's continued cooperation as a pass-through.

"Couldn't you..." Her cheeks flushed and she looked away from him. Erik's head tilted slightly to the side as he patiently waited for her to finish. She finally seemed to muster up her courage as she continued, "Couldn't you eat here instead?"

He looked at her in mild surprise. "Why?"

She fussed with the hem of her shirt, her attention still on the floor. "Because there's a man out there that wants to find me, and hurt me, and I feel better when I know you can see me."

The irony of her assessment was not lost to him, but an irrational feeling of pride overcame him to know that he made her feel safer just from his presence alone. It was a new one—people more likely to tremble at his company rather than ask him to dine with them—but he found that it pleased him greatly.

"I will stay with you, if you wish, but I would prefer not to eat." She gave him a worried glance, and he decided one small falsehood to protect his true face would not prove _too_ dreadful. "My needs were sufficiently supplied for while you slept."

If she wondered why he had not offered her something, she made no comment of it, instead flipping through the supplied binder and finding the appropriate menu and number to call.

"Are you sure you won't have anything? Even some water?" she whispered to him, presumably while the line continued to ring in her ear. He had bottles of water in his suitcase—Erik was nothing if not prepared—but he inclined his head and her answering smile at his acquiescence was worth the redundancy. Strange girl, wanting to provide for him.

Her order placed, she rifled through her suitcase, pulling out an interesting conglomeration of garments, eying him now and again as she did so. "I'll just..." he waved her toward the bathroom door, returning to his own room to sort his own belongings. Unlike Christine's rather messily organized suitcase, his own was neatly folded, special compartments keeping everything separated into proper categories so nothing could possibly be lost or mislaid. He sighed and ran a finger over his mask. He would need to remove it at some point to ensure that the flesh beneath was not having an adverse reaction to the adhesive, but he loathed the very thought of it. She was comfortable with him like this, and though she seemed a sweet and caring girl, more generous than he would have previously imagined, he would not risk frightening her with a glimpse of his true face.

Or show her any of his black ones so similar to the one she had seen while he dealt with Buquet.

That one had been burned in his frustration, along with a handful of other black options. Those had been his favorites, the color imposing and trim, allowing him to bleed into the shadows and travel unnoticed by the other occupants of his theatre. But now he had only flesh colored options and some white as well, not all of them as elaborate as the one he currently wore, but also hopefully none that would spur Christine's memory should she ever catch sight of them.

He loosened his tie a little, but otherwise remained fully dressed. Perhaps he would change when she slept, would settle atop the bed to see if sleep would choose to take him this night—a rare thing, that seemed to be—but not a moment before. Presumably she would be in her own sleep clothes, and it would be... unseemly for them both to appear so at the same time.

He returned when he heard a knock upon the door, and he utilized the installed peep hole before opening it. A porter was clearly visible, his cart equally so. He required a cart to carry a sandwich and two waters?

Erik rolled his eyes before opening the door, highly aware of the knife within easy reach of his fingers should it prove to be any sort of trap. Erik did not allow him into the room—Christine may return at any moment, and he doubted she would be pleased for an unknown man to be waiting for her—but Erik placed a few dollars on the cart before he took the tray and the waters, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He heard a muffled, "Thank you," from beyond the heavy obstruction, but Erik was already striding toward the nearby table with his burdens.

He removed the silver cover from the plate and situated Christine's meal as nicely as he could. The sandwich did not appear wholly unappealing, but nor did he relish the thought of having to eat one himself. It was fortunate he was not hungry.

"Are they gone?" Christine asked, peeping out from the door of the bathroom, her eyes darting about for sign of anyone new.

"Yes," answered simply, holding his glass of ice water between his hands. He sighed, bemused, and released it. As if his touch needed to be any colder.

He glanced toward Christine as she drew closer, blinking at her strange attire. She must have been wearing a nightgown of some sort, but it was obscured by a thick sweater that nearly reached her knees, the rest of her legs covered by tall socks that had no business being as fuzzy as they appeared.

Thankfully her attention was so focused on the meal that she did not notice his staring, and he forced his gaze back to his water.

She took the seat across from him, taking a large bite of sandwich and munching with evident happiness.

And for some reason, his mouth grew dry to witness it. "Is it to your satisfaction?"

Her mouth so full she could only nod, though she did manage to smile at him still.

It was not that he found her attractive in that moment, he assured himself silently. Nor that he found her attire an endearing attempt at modesty and warmth in an otherwise unconventional situation.

But as he sipped at his water and continued to witness her joy at such a simple meal, he realized that this was the first time someone had willing _shared_ in a meal with him in...

He stopped short of when the last occasion had been, shuddering slightly at his own stupidity at ever having agreed to it.

This was nothing like that.

This was simply a sweet girl that did not wish to be alone, who wanted nothing from him but his protection.

Not to exploit his mind and his skills for her own personal gain.

But Erik was unused to it all the same, and he grew uncomfortable by their silent repast, his gaze flickering to the sanctuary of his own bedroom more than once.

"You can go, if you want," Christine finally offered, fiddling with the remaining half of her sandwich. "I wouldn't want to keep you where you don't want to be, and you must be very tired. It was silly of me to ask you."

Erik took another swallow of cool water, considering.

He did not know what he expected life to be like on the run with her, but this was not it. Ever one for meticulous planning, all of this was so spontaneous and foolhardy that he hardly recognized it as a plan of his own making. And yet... as he watched her tear off little bits of bread before gathering her courage enough to look at him with what he assumed was meant to be a show of sincerity, he still could not regret it.

"You were a member of the stage, yes? What was your function?"

It felt ridiculous to ask it of her since he was well aware of her status in his theatre, but he must set aside his observations and actually make personal inquiries if she was to ever know how well he actually knew her. And suddenly that seemed of great importance.

Christine ate another bite, and he wondered why she required so long to answer. The question was a simple enough one, without revealing too many private details. Perhaps she disagreed.

Eventually she swallowed, and played with the crumbs on her plate, the rest of her sandwich temporarily forgotten. "I am a... _was_ , a chorus girl. You know, one of the group that comes in for the bigger numbers?"

Erik was perfectly knowledgeable of such things, but he would not embarrass her by correcting her assumption that he was illiterate in the ways of musical theatre. "And you liked it?"

To her surprise, her face grew rather pinched. "It was... home. Being there. Singing there. It's what my papa had always wanted for me, and... that was what I had left of him. The last thing that we shared."

Erik opened his mouth to tell her that her answer was a foolish one—that a dead man most certainly could not _share_ in anything any longer, and if she did not hold a proper passion for the stage any longer, she had no business conducting herself there.

It was good he had taken her, before they began to usher her up through the ranks, her presence there more sentimental than should be allowable.

But then he noted the tears shimmering in her eyes, and he realized he could say none of it. "Your father... he is deceased?"

She nodded, pushing away her plate. "He got mugged, and the man got scared. Shot him. They say... they told me he didn't suffer."

Erik frowned. Unless death had come in an instant, he did not agree with their assessment. It likely had been slow, with varying degrees of pain and suddenly a silent numbness that was almost welcome as it meant an end to torturous process of precious fluids oozing from the unnatural wound.

But Christine was crumpling inward, even Erik could see that. And suddenly he could understand why the coroner had lied to her. Nothing would be gained from offering her that truth other than to add to her heartache.

And while Erik typically valued truth—at least in regard to his own person—he supposed that others did not value reality over the protection of their own feelings.

"And your mother?"

He did not actually have an answer to that, and was genuinely curious as to why the little girl and the lonely violinist had no woman to join their fair twosome.

Christine wiped hurriedly at her eyes. "Breast cancer. She was so young, but it came anyway, before... well, before she really even realized she had it. I didn't know anyone could die that quickly. Not until... not until Papa."

Screenings. She would require early screenings from a proper professional. Erik stopped himself. Would she still be with him in ten years for him to ensure she would get them?

He regarded her once again, trying to be objective.

And all he could think was... yes.

An odd thing to be sure.

He could tire of her. He could find that she was cut from the same insipid cloth from so many other women, driving him mad with her foolishness. And yet... as he continued to watch her and finally urged Christine to pick up the sandwich and continue eating, he could not readily say he believed that he would find her so.

A pure soul. That is what she possessed. Pained to be sure, but no less beautiful.

Erik was almost jealous at the twisted and tainted thing in his own possession, now that he sat across from one so lovely.

"If you could select any place to be your new home," he asked her slowly, wondering if he would regret it once he heard her choice. "Where would you choose for it to be?"

Christine blinked, evidently not expecting his change in topic, though as her shoulders relaxed, he could not say that it was unwelcome. "Anywhere? In the whole world?"

Erik very nearly placed restrictions. It was perfectly feasible for them to leave the continent if she so desired, but it would grow more complicated to accomplish. And yet... he did so love a challenge. "Anywhere," he confirmed.

She was quiet for a moment, obviously giving a great deal of thought to it. He did not expect her answer.

"Somewhere with lots of water."

Erik blinked at her.

"That is all? A place with ample hydration?"

Christine gave him a small smile. "Oceans, lakes, rivers. That sort of thing." Her nose wrinkled. "Maybe someplace without any more snow."

Erik did not disagree on that point.

Clinging, troublesome stuff. He also did not appreciate the need to disguise his footprints whenever it felt it necessary to fall from the very skies as though a carefully planned invasion.

Which it very nearly was.

"But I don't really get a say, do I? In where we go, I mean." She looked terribly unhappy at the idea, and Erik felt a twinge of guilt at how everything in her life had changed so very quickly, and all without even a pretense at consideration for her own hopes and desires.

Not enough to do anything to rectify the situation, but in this at least, he could make an allowance.

"I promise you, Christine, when you are settled into your new life, there will be water in abundance."

And her smile alone was enough to make such a commitment well worth the giving.

Very strange, indeed.

* * *

Sooo... looks like Christine is getting a say in where they go next. _And_ she's even inviting Erik into her room! Wasn't she ever warned about vampires? Er, marshals? Er... Opera Ghosts?


	6. Chapter 6

I probably shoooould have made this segment shorter but... a character in my show is in great peril and I barely managed to tear myself away so I could post! So forgive its lateness and... Lincoln! I'm coming back to you!

Ahem.

Onward!

* * *

vi

Christine nestled further under the covers, not wishing to move. The drapes, much heavier and thicker than her own flimsy offerings on her apartment windows, blocked even the most determined sunbeams from entering, leaving the room a dark and cozy place.

And driving was exhausting.

Even if all she had to do was sit still and look out the window.

This was their third hotel in as many days, each much finer than she would have expected on a marshal's budget. But then, she really understood so little about the system. Part of her also expected to hear from Detective Nadir, but Erik simply promised her that any such calls would go through him.

"Anonymity is important, Christine. Your safety is paramount. And if anyone should realize that he is making calls to an unknown number halfway across the country..." He'd shaken his head and _tsked_ low in his throat, and she suddenly felt very stupid.

"But how will I know when I need to go back? If... _when_ the man has been caught and I have to testify?"

Erik gave her a searching glance before turning his eyes back to the road. "As I have stated, I will inform you of any changes. Now, do you care for music?"

This he said with a bit of a smile playing about his lips, and Christine rolled her eyes at him good naturedly. Most of their journey consisted of long silences or arguments over Erik's musical selections. On more than one occasion it seemed that he grew overly vexed when she disagreed, his mouth opening to summon some retort, his eyes narrow slits. But before she could grow too nervous or stammer a redaction, he would simply shake his head with a barely audible, "You are young," and skip to the next song.

She did not appreciate his assessment of her, but she also did not want him to be upset with her so she had yet to press him further on the matter. Twenty-two was not so very young. Before all of this horrid business had begun, she had a career and a home of her own—a life. Perhaps a very quiet one, perhaps one that would not be envied by many, but it was hers. And her father had ensured that her musical education was not at all lacking, so his dismissal of her opinions was not very appreciated.

But what kept her silent on the subject was the knowledge of how very lonely all of this would be—at least, even more than it already was—if Erik was truly cross with her. Maybe then he'd make her sit in the back, would not offer any conversation or even agree to one of her road games with that longsuffering sigh that was his wont.

And then when they reached their final destination, what if he simply dropped her off somewhere and left her on her own? It was one thing to have carried on after her papa left with a city so very familiar to her. It was something else entirely to consider wandering around an unknown place, with no leads as to a job or an apartment, with little cash in her pocket.

She always tried to keep some in her purse, and with Erik's insistence that she not even take her debit card, unless she could find a bank and prove her true identity—which somehow she doubted Erik would consider a wise thing—she would not be retrieving more.

"Will you be joining the living today, or shall you prefer to remain as you are?"

Christine nearly groaned, peeking out from beneath the fluffy duvet to look at Erik leaning between the doorways of their adjoining rooms.

She had thought at first that it would be terribly awkward to have so little privacy from a relative stranger, but it was not overly so. Erik was very respectful of her space, only entering her room when directly asked and never going so far as to touch her person at all.

Professional. That described him well.

The only exception was when he helped her out of the car. She had protested at first, insisting that the height was no trouble for her, and at first he had respected that—hovering, but not interfering. But yesterday she'd been tired and her legs uncooperative, and if he had not moved so quickly she would have ended up with more than a scraped knee.

"Do you never sleep in? We've been driving for _ages_."

The light was still dim, but from his sigh, she was left with the distinct impression that he was rolling his eyes at her.

"Some believe that the body is most productive in the mornings. Clearly you are not in agreement."

Christine groused but rolled over, flicking on the bedside lamp so she could see him properly. "How far are we going today?"

"Well, unless you agree to leave this bed, we will not make any progress at all," he retorted dryly. "And since I have only booked these rooms for the single night and checkout is in ten minute's time, unless you have the funds to cover the overages..."

Christine yelped and shoved down the covers, hurrying to her suitcase and pulling out the first comfortable clothes her fingers touched before barricading herself in the bathroom.

Only to belatedly realize that Erik had received quite a view of her legs as she had discarded her sweater and socks before climbing into bed the night before.

Her cheeks burned and she hoped he wouldn't say anything. She was mortified enough already.

She had showered the night before as had become her custom when at last they finished driving for the day. Erik's car was quite comfortable, the leather seats supple and everything very clean. But she still felt stale and stuffy after being cooped up for so long, and he had taken to ordering her a meal while she readied for bed. And she privately thought that he'd begun to linger just a little bit closer to their adjoining doors to see if she would ask him to eat with her.

He still never had a full meal himself, and she was beginning to feel like quite the glutton in comparison to his own limited intake. He promised that he was simply not hungry, but as she never actually saw him consume a full meal aside from the occasional nibble now and again, she worried that perhaps he was simply not allowed to be distracted by eating. Meaning he was hungry because of her.

A knot settled in her belly whenever she thought of it, and she promised herself that she would ask him about it today.

She finished her morning ablutions as quickly as possible, not wanting to spend the very last of her cash on rooms she likely could not have easily afforded even under the best of circumstances.

"Ready?"

Christine nodded, placing the last of her things back into her suitcase and zipping it closed. She missed having a dresser. And being stationary for a while. Where there were bathrooms that one did not have to muster up the courage to ask for.

Erik had been very polite about it all, but still she felt horribly embarrassed whenever she had to quietly ask him to find a rest stop for a moment. He always did so promptly, reminding her that he wanted her to travel without discomfort, but still, it was awkward and she rather hated it.

Yesterday he had started stopping for fuel on a far more frequent basis, politely suggesting she take the time to stretch her legs while he saw to things with the car, and she was increasingly grateful for his discretion and thoughtfulness.

Erik took the handle of her suitcase as well as his own, walking them both out to the trunk and depositing them in the back. Not for the first time, Christine wished she had some skill that would give her something to _do_ during their long sojourn. Knitting. Or crochet. Or even needlepoint. But she had none of those skills, and the few favorite books that inhabited her suitcase would have to remain where they were—it would not prove wise to add queasiness to her growing complaints.

"You will be relieved to know that I believe we will reach a potential candidate for your final relocations today. Presuming you find the area to your liking."

Christine turned to him, a wide smile forming on her face. "Really?"

Erik glanced at her before looking away, turning on the vehicle and focusing his attention on pulling out of the narrow parking space. "Yes. It has much _water_ which was the only criterion you saw fit to provide me."

Christine laughed softly at his tone, disgruntled as it was, though she sobered quickly at his reproachful look. "Sorry."

He merely sniffed in response, returning his eyes to the road.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she'd yet to have breakfast. Usually he would have ordered something from room service to be brought to her, but she supposed she slept through his attempted provision.

Erik frowned at her. "You are hungry."

"Yes," she confirmed, already feeling guilty. She supposed he might have eaten this morning while she slept—possibly even the fare he had thought to give her before she had decided the bed was too nice to leave so soon—but if he had indeed been going hungry because of some duty to her protection...

She felt she at least had to apologize for that necessity.

"Erik," she began carefully, still very aware of the consequences if she provoked him overmuch, and she hoped he would not take offense to her attempt at sympathy. "I'm sorry if... that is to say... I'm sorry if there's some rule against you eating with me while you're on duty. I don't like to think about you going hungry all because of me."

His grip tightened on the wheel, and her wariness grew. Maybe it would have been wisest to remain silent on the subject. "Forget I said anything," she mumbled quietly, shifting in her seat so she could look more fully in the opposite direction. Perhaps if she afforded him some privacy, he would not be the one too cross to speak with her, and later she could attempt to smooth things over once again.

"Christine," he stated so firmly that she could not help but look back toward him. "I do not deny myself any wanted sustenance on your behalf, so you may release yourself of any needless guilt. I can assure you, I eat to my satisfaction. That seemed to occur, however, when you are absent."

Christine nibbled at her lip. "Is that on purpose? Would it be... bad to eat with me?"

He eyed her shrewdly for a moment as they came to a stop light, the freeway beckoning just beyond. "You would wish that?"

She flushed and fiddled with the tightly bound leather of the seat. "I mean, I always ate alone at my apartment, and that was fine. But I just thought..." she shrugged, feeling foolish. Erik was not here to be her friend. This was a job and nothing more to him, and he was under no obligation to eat meals with her and talk with her and keep her company in the evenings just because she asked it of him. He was not her _friend_ , he was her protector. Paid by the government to be so, simply because a man wanted to kill her. And even with that charge, he'd still likely find a decent spot, and once she was set up enough with a job and an apartment, he wouldn't even be that anymore. He'd leave and she'd...

She'd be alone.

Again.

She swallowed thickly and looked back out the window.

And to her great surprise, Erik did not take the freeway entrance, but instead pulled to the side of the road just before it.

"You are upset. Why?"

How could she explain without embarrassing herself further? She had not made many friends at the theatre, but that had been her choice. To grow close to someone meant she could just as easily lose them and she had not been ready to relive such an experience yet again. But with Erik, his presence had been wholly thrust upon her, frightening and intimidating at the beginning and now... now a comfort that she craved. Companionship, conversation. They were things so enjoyed and familiar in the past and now that she had them again, she was loath to be without.

But she was being unfair and ridiculous. Surely he had a life back at home—wherever his home might be—and she was being purely selfish. She would not be a ninny about things. She would thank him for his kindness, for making the stress of this whole horrible situation so much more bearable, and would most certainly _not_ cry when he left her.

"Christine?"

"Sorry," she murmured, her throat unusually tight and strained. "Just overwhelmed, I guess."

His head cocked slightly to the side. "Why?"

She knew she was confusing him; of course she was. Her feelings were too erratic to have any sense of rationality, and to try to speak of them to him would only further her upset. And she did _not_ wish to cry in front of him. That felt too manipulative. She'd seen the frightened look in her papa's eyes when she would have such emotional outbursts, and even as caring and sweet as he had learned to be when she no longer had a mother to turn to, he always would chuckle and tell her how awkward and unsure he felt whenever she would turn those tearful eyes to his.

Erik sighed deeply at her silence, and she scrounged hurriedly for some explanation to offer him. But how could she confess that she was growing too dependent on his presence? The comfort it brought her in a world that would wholly be new?

"We're almost there," she managed finally. "And that scares me."

He frowned at her again, obviously not expecting that answer. "Why should it? I would have thought you would relish being through with our travels."

She laughed, a weary sound even to her own ears. "I thought so too. But now... now I remember that there's so much I don't know, don't know how to even prepare myself for and you..." she stopped herself short, wishing she hadn't even mentioned him.

"What about me?" he insisted, his eyes narrow as he watched her carefully.

Christine sighed miserably and lay her head against the back of the headrest with a mild _thump_. "It is embarrassing to even say."

He was silent for a moment, and she could not bring herself to look at him. Finally, he started the car and she startled thoroughly when he suddenly turned the car about and forewent their obvious destination, abandoning the freeway entirely. "What are you doing?"

Thankfully he maneuvered any traffic with ease, settling them into their proper lane without killing them or anyone else, but her heart still pounded at what she was certain was a _highly_ illegal u-turn.

"You clearly require breakfast. Perhaps after you have eaten sufficiently you will be willing to explain yourself more thoroughly."

Christine opened her mouth to retort that she most _certainly_ was not simply acting strange due to hunger, but quickly closed it again when her stomach clutched at her. Well. If he wished to feed her, then she wasn't going to object.

He did not have to go far before he pulled up to a coffee shop, and Christine hopped down on her own without waiting for his assistance. His eyes narrowed at her once again, but she walked past him into the store, her emotions still quite rankled. The morning was a busy one, the line long, but Erik still kept a careful distance between them as they waited.

On more than one occasion she glanced toward him, trying to find words to explain herself properly, only to find him staring at her, his expression grim. She looked guiltily away.

She wasn't being fair. He had been nothing but kind, but that was precisely what was so difficult.

Christine went forward and ordered a cup of tea and a plump looking scone, and very nearly confirmed that the order was complete, except suddenly Erik's voice cut in from above her. "And a small coffee."

She blinked up at him, not at all expecting him to join her for breakfast—he most certainly had never done it before. He looked at her rather pointedly when he handed the cashier his credit card, and Christine felt thoroughly chastened by the entire encounter. He had his own reasons for whatever he did, and she did not know him well enough to begin to make assumptions. And he also was the one who paid for all her meals and saw that she had a bed every night, and it wouldn't do to begin to be ungrateful.

Before she could apologize to him, a bag with her scone and her tea were handed to her, and Erik accepted his coffee with a simple nod of thanks.

They prepared their drinks in silence, her adding cream and sugar, while Erik accepted only the smallest dash of milk to his otherwise dark brew. She had never managed to acquire a taste for coffee. Her father had liked it, drank a single cup every morning as he read the newspaper. And though the smell, even now, made her think of him, the taste was still as bitter and unpleasant as when she'd stolen sips as a girl.

"You like coffee?" she asked Erik dubiously. It didn't come as a great surprise—plenty of people clearly enjoyed it—but she was trying to find some small measure of more comfortable conversation before she tried to explain her previous upset.

Erik shrugged his shoulders and held the door open for her as they exited, before doing the same as they came to the car once more. "It is adequate."

She frowned, realizing he referred to this particular blend, not his liking of it in general.

She settled back into her seat and fastened her belt before opening her bag and taking a bite of scone, trying not to shower his nice interior with crumbs as her slightly warm breakfast was clearly attempting to do.

He was still looking at her in that strange and searching way as got in his own seat, and it made her very uncomfortable. "I'm sorry about the crumbs," she tried, hoping that appeased him. "I'll brush them all out when we stop next."

Erik sighed deeply and placed his coffee in the cup holder, starting the car with a frustrated shake of his head. "I care less about the crumbs and more about why you are acting so very oddly this morning. Do you require time to digest before you will prove more apt at sense making?"

Christine took a sip of hot tea to keep from arguing with him. She _wasn't_ making much sense as she had spoken little of her thoughts and trepidations, and she could not suddenly begin punishing him for not being able to guess the source of her fears.

No matter how much she might wish to.

This time they eased onto the freeway without any drastic movements on Erik's part, and she wondered if this truly was the last leg of their journey. An uncomfortable knot settled in her stomach and her lovely scone lost some of its appeal.

"Well? Or are we to continue on in silence?"

Christine huffed out a breath and gave him an exasperated look. "You have a very good way of making me angry enough to talk. I suppose that's better than being on the verge of tears that everything is about to change again."

Erik looked at her in mild surprise. "It is not my intention to cause you vexation, only to spur you to speaking your thoughts. They clearly have upset you, and I can do nothing to help until I know what has gone wrong." His voice dropped. "You were fine yesterday," he murmured softly to himself, clearly assessing and analyzing her mental status.

Christine rolled her eyes.

"I told you on the very first day that I couldn't visualize what my future looked like. And while I can't say I've enjoyed every moment of our road trip," he glanced at her sharply at that, clearly wanting to prod for more information on _that_ front, but she pressed on, "it was comfortable. _Is_ comfortable. And now..." A lump settled back in her throat and she had to struggle to keep her voice from breaking. She felt utterly ridiculous and stupid, and Erik was...

Erik was simply a man trying to help.

She sighed and thumped her head against the headrest a few times, trying to force her thoughts to align properly.

To her very great surprise, a large hand was suddenly at her neck, preventing her from doing so.

He released her almost immediately, her shock at his touch—gloved though it was in the finest leather she could ever imagine—causing her to cease the action completely.

"Do not do that," he told her quietly. "You may injure yourself."

She wanted to release an incredulous laugh, but there was something odd about his tone, the way he suddenly refused to look at her, and she could only nod her assent instead.

They went on in silence for a moment before Erik straightened his already impressive posture. He always made her feel a bit gangly in comparison, as she slumped and nestled and contorted in the seat to whatever suited her best in the moment.

"You were saying that our travels have been _moderately_ comfortable, yet now..." he prompted with a pointed look for her to continue.

Christine took another sip of tea, enjoying the warmth between her hands and the distraction it brought her. "And now there's just a scary, lonely world out there that I'd have to learn to navigate on my own. Again."

Erik looked at her sharply. "Who told you that you would be alone?"

Christine's brow furrowed. "No one _told_ me, but wouldn't that make the most sense? You're taking me to safety, someplace where no one knows me, with a new identity and a new life. And then you'll leave and I'll just... be there." She hated the thought of it. Of having left the familiar, of leaving behind the acquaintances she valued, of letting Raoul have the opportunity to pursue her.

She snorted softly to herself at that, realizing even now the unlikelihood of that particular happening. He would have noticed her long before if she was of any great importance, regardless of what Erik had told her. She was very much above age now, yet still he had forgotten her and continued to ignore her in the hallways. At the very least he might have said hello...

Christine tugged out her papa's ring from underneath her shirt, rubbing at it. It still felt strange to have it on a chain, and she missed rotating it on her thumb—a soothing action that had brought her a great deal of comfort. But she would not be responsible for losing it again, so she told herself firmly that she would simply have to adjust.

"I will not be leaving you," Erik stated firmly at her side. "I do not know if such an idea stems from your own imagination or perhaps too much television, but I can assure you, I am not going to abandon you."

Something tightened in her chest, and to her horror it felt a great deal like a sob. She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath, and took another sip of tea simply to soothe the last of her upset, before she addressed him again. "Is that normally how it works? You'd sure need a lot of marshals if one stayed with every person that needed to be relocated."

Erik's lips quirked downward. "You do not need to worry over how I see to my job. I do it well, and with great success, and I would appreciate if you did not question it." His tone was tense and almost sharp, and she looked away from him, her feelings stung.

She did not mean to question him. But perhaps some people did not like too many questions or comments about their job performance. She wondered what that would be like, her own work constantly open to critiques and well-meaning—or not so well-meaning—suggestions on how she could improve.

"Then what _will_ happen?" she finally asked, slightly irritated at his harsh response. "Because you haven't told me very much, and when I don't know I start to worry. And I can conjure up some pretty dreadful things..."

Erik's frown deepened. "That will not be necessary."

Christine very nearly released a groan of frustration when he remained silent once again, and she shifted in her seat so that her back was turned to him. She did not know anymore if he was being unreasonable or if she had crossed the line into being so herself, but at the moment she didn't particularly care.

All she wanted was a vision of her future—something concrete she could hold onto when all her fears surfaced, her worries and her frettings—and he denied her that. For her protection? Or because the answer would only cause her further distress?

"We will stay in a hotel until I find a suitable home for you. Somewhere that offers enough privacy for your comfort, but within the bounds of the city so that your presence there will not be questioned. Is that sufficient information?"

Christine huffed and looked at him over her shoulder without turning completely. "Where will you be? If you don't live with me, will I see you frequently or would it not be safe to contact you unless it's an emergency?"

Erik answered softly, though there was something in his tone she could not readily identify. "Would you like that? To have such limited contact with me?"

If she hadn't promised him to stop, she would thump her head against the back of the headrest again. "That's not what I said. And not at all what I meant. Why would you think that?"

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "It has been my experience that my presence is rarely welcome for long. You have proved remarkably resilient thus far, and it is expected that even you should have your limitations."

Christine opened her mouth and then closed it again, not wholly certain how to respond. Finally, she settled on some measure of comfort, for he said those things with such mild resignation, that she was fairly sure it covered some amount of hurt. "I'm sorry if your other... charges didn't like your company. All I can say is… it's a scary thing, this witness protection thing. Everything is so unknown, and you don't even hear from the detectives with an update on the case, so you have no way of knowing if the person after you is getting closer or you lost them completely. And maybe… maybe it isn't you at all, but just the circumstances. Maybe some people like to just withdraw, and you being there keeps them from doing that."

Erik offered her a grim smile, and she immediately felt foolish for having spoken at all. "You are very kind to say so, Christine, but I am well aware that my presence is a trial. As I have said, none have cared for it for long."

She shouldn't prod. It was rude, and she didn't want to make him cross.

But already they were rather at odds, and if they were to maintain a relationship, she'd like to know more about him. Other than his taste in music, she new remarkably little about him. He listened to her personal stories with interest—or at least, she hoped she could read him enough to know that it was interest and not a feigned sort of indulgence on his part—but he rarely offered anything of his own.

"You must have had a family. Surely they liked your company just fine."

It was very much the wrong thing to say, she knew it as soon as the words had left her.

His entire body tensed, his eyes narrowing and his mouth forming a tight line. She had thought him intimidating before, when first he had appeared in her doorway, all long limbed and radiating authority.

That was nothing compared to Erik when he was angered.

* * *

Sooo... uh oh! Just haaaad to go and bring up the family, Christine! Think Erik's going to blow up at her? I think he's been relatively calm so far, all things considered.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you, _Mystery_ for the reminder! I was going to set up a timer system but since I couldn't even get my alarm to go off properly this morning *sigh* I fear 'tis hopeless. So thank you all for your patience! I hope everyone is enjoying their holidays and everything isn't too hectic. I finished my wrapping (finally) after much procrastination, so that's... something. Now if I could only finish decorating.

But enough of that. Onward!

* * *

vii

"F-forget I said anything," Christine insisted hastily. "Of course you don't need to talk about your family if you don't want to."

He nodded stiffly, and Christine could not help but feel a little disappointed. She was so curious about him, this mysterious man that was charged with her protection, but that did not give her leave to pry into painful memories.

"You never answered my question," she said at last, though at his look she hastened to clarify. "Not... not about your parents. I mean, about where you'll be staying."

"Where would you _like_ for me to stay?"

There was nothing overly considerate about his tone, almost as if he had already made up his mind regarding the answer—and evidently it was not to his liking.

She nibbled at her lip, thoughtful for a moment. Would it be wrong to say that she'd rather he stay with her? At least, if the living space was big enough. They would both need their privacy if things were to remain professional—she did not want to be exposing her legs and other attributes so carelessly over the ensuing months. Perhaps if they found an apartment that was too small, him taking up residence next door would be sufficient. Close, but not _too_ close. Able to help if she needed it, without interfering in her everyday life...

As if she now had one to interfere _with_.

"I want whatever is safest. And... I want you to be comfortable. If you were staying with me and that meant you couldn't ever relax or eat or... take time for yourself, I don't think that would be fair. I'm sure that the program wasn't set up for their marshals to have to sacrifice all of their time."

He looked at her rather oddly. " _Are_ you sure of that?"

She flushed. "Well, no, but if it isn't, then that's a silly system."

"Even if it keeps people alive? Would you not think that the sacrifice was worthwhile?"

Christine hesitated. "I don't..."

"If we were to find a house somewhere, it would be most advisable for me to remain there with you. Quite economical, do you not agree? To save the expense of a second dwelling?"

She could not argue with that, already feeling guilty at all the taxpayer money that was going into her personal safety.

"And," Erik continued, not allowing time for her to reply or protest if she felt so inclined. "We shall have to provide a story to satisfy the neighbors regarding our presence there in the neighborhood."

That made sense... so why did he look as if he was almost taunting her?

"Tell me, Christine, would you prefer to be an unwed couple that are living together most illicitly, or pose as a happily married couple just beginning their new lives of wedded bliss?"

Christine simply stared at him.

"I... those are my only options?"

Erik shrugged. "That I can see. A man living alone with a woman..." he clicked his tongue almost reproachfully. "Those are typically the only two reasons."

"There are sometimes roommates of the opposite sex," she told him without much vigor. Even she thought it an odd arrangement when she heard some of her coworkers were living so.

And it was not uncommon to later see them giving each other long glances, their relationships announced soon after.

Christine bit her lip again, suddenly unsure about the whole thing. Erik was... he might be an officer of the law, probably had a very large and thorough code of ethics he had to ascribe to when he took this position—one that strictly forbade fraternization with any of his charges.

But he was also a man, and some things were just natural, weren't they? Close quarters, an abundance of time spent together...

"I shall take from your silence that the idea of being with me in any _romantic_ capacity is wholly a distasteful one." There was that odd note to his voice again, almost accusing in its certainty—as if she had just confirmed some great truth that he had always suspected.

Christine was thoroughly confused why any of this mattered.

"You didn't give me time to think!"

Erik gave her a simpering smile, and she rather hated it. "My apologies. Which aspect required such a great deal of concentration on your part?"

Christine glared at him. "I don't know why you're taking this so personally. It's not like anything _could_ happen between us for you to get your feelings hurt." She wasn't expecting him to look so stung, but he did.

Did that mean he... thought about her that way?

She didn't know how she felt about that. Didn't know how she felt about any of it.

Until three days ago, she had quite thoroughly nursed feelings for Raoul, regardless of her more practical realization that he might not be wholly worthy of her affections—not if he didn't even care to _notice_ her. But still, despite what Erik's manly pride might demand, she was not ready to transfer them so easily. He was kind—at least, when he tried to be—and thoughtful—when he wasn't looking at her like this and using this tone—and maybe in time, if it was not actually banned by his superiors and ethics in general, she _might_ find herself at least considering the possibility.

But not at this particular moment.

"I'm not used to being a deceitful person, and all that has to change now. Even whenever I introduce myself, it'll be its own lie because I won't even get to use my real name. And then when you add that now I have to claim a relationship with you that isn't there—pretend at a _life_ with you that never existed..."

Erik still appeared rather sour as he continued to stare at the road beyond them. "I thought you feared being left alone, though evidently this is a far worse alternative."

Christine took a deep breath, searching for the right words to explain without angering him further. "Between your two alternatives, yes, I would rather that we appear married. I never thought I'd... live with a man before being his wife," her papa had instilled that most thoroughly before his death, "and I wouldn't want them thinking otherwise." Not that she did not know lots of girls who lived with their boyfriends at the theatre. And most of them seemed happy enough, at least for now. But Christine craved permanence and safety and security, in addition to love and affection. To be _one_ with someone...

Erik was silent for a long while, and Christine was grateful for the opportunity to gather her thoughts properly. She did not mean to confuse him, or to hurt him—though she could not be sure that she had done the latter. Not when his reactions were confusing in their own right.

"I don't mean to be critical about you or your job. You keep people safe and that's very admirable. But… if you could please just… maybe be a bit more understanding that all of this is so new to me, and I'm not going to like every aspect of what hiding means." She sighed, "Like the lying. You might be used to it and I'm not."

Nothing about Erik's countenance suggested that he would be so, and she tried again. "It has nothing to do with you, honestly. About people thinking we're _together_." She still wasn't completely sure why that mattered to him, but evidently it did. But Erik remained silent, and eventually she could think of no other assurances to offer, so she turned her attention back out the passenger window, hoping that he wouldn't be mad at her for long.

Erik knew he was being unfair, and in truth, he did not know why he could not simply accept her words and the difficulties she communicated. She had been acting strange all morning, upset and prone to tears, and like a fool he had pushed and cajoled, trying to ascertain the source of her unhappiness.

Evidently it was a much wiser course to allow her to speak only when she wished to, otherwise he might hear things he most definitely did not desire to.

It shouldn't matter that she didn't want him. No woman ever had, and yet for some reason he had yet to ponder, her rejection of him tasted bitter. He reached for his rather tepid coffee and took a sip, better for the lingering taste to come from slightly singed beans than Christine.

Things had been going so well. Christine had a naturally cheerful disposition, despite her reservations, and he found himself genuinely enjoying her company. She was easy to tease, and she seemed to welcome his conversation with pleasure. Yet today, everything confused him. She did not want to be alone, but she did not want him. She wanted to be safe, but was not willing to lie to become so.

He wanted to soothe his rankled temper with music, but could not bring himself to make a selection. What appealed to him now would likely disturb her, all harsh notes and discordant tones to reflect his mood.

For the first time, he was grateful they would reach their destination soon.

When he had asked her to select their new home, he had thought she would supply a specific location—perhaps some fanciful spot in Europe she had seen in a book, or a childish dream of a castle nestled in some forgotten hideaway. Instead she had been vague and rather unhelpful in his quest to please her, but he supposed the freedom she allotted was useful in its own right. She could not complain overmuch if she was displeased when she had not offered more guidance when it was asked of her.

The place he had in mind was certainly not lacking in water. Rain fell frequently, in case that was what she had meant, but there were also inlets from the ocean, as well as a rather quick drive to the full coast if that was what she preferred. Or he could find her a river, if spring water appealed to her more.

His desire to please her was a strange thing. He enjoyed her smiles in a detached sort of way. Frequently in his life he had looked for sources of beauty, and there was no mistaking that Christine qualified tenfold. The more he spoke with her, the more he began to realize how protected she had been from life's cruelties while her father lived. It created a sweetness and a naivety that, while at times endearing, made him concerned for her now that the man was long since dead. Any could take advantage, any could prey upon her good will, and harm her deeply in the process.

It was perhaps a blessing to her that he had decided to relocate with her person. He would keep her safe.

If only he could understand her better.

"Erik," Christine spoke, hesitation marring her voice. He sighed deeply and forced himself to relax and keep the tension from his own voice.

"Yes?"

"Could we maybe... stop somewhere?"

He wanted to tell her that they were very nearly to the city, but he had promised himself early in their travels that he would be compassionate and put her needs before his own sense of urgency. And he would also not embarrass her by forcing her to recount each reason for her requested stop. He knew what it was to have every privacy stripped from him, and he would not subject Christine to that same form of humiliation.

"Of course."

Erik hated the public restrooms they had to frequent. Thankfully he had to make use of them far less regularly than Christine, but he cringed a little whenever she went to use such facilities. He always tried to pick someplace that at least had a hope of being clean and private, discovering that coffee shops and chain restaurants had better offerings than gas stations. They also had the added benefits of being able to supply Christine with more nutritious meals than a convenience store. He would like to care for her in all areas, and do it properly.

"Are you staying here?" Christine asked tentatively, and he hated her unease, though he was uncertain how to mend it. He was unused to relationships, of how to move past discord. If someone irritated him, they were either dead soon after—which proved an admirable manner of dealing with said emotion—or he simply withdrew to his underground home, where silence and hours of musical expression helped to soothe him. There was no need for restoration or apologies, or anything that Christine might prefer.

"Yes," Erik affirmed, hoping that some time to himself would provide a clearer answer to his current dilemma.

Christine nodded and took her purse, disappearing into the cafe beyond.

He tried not to let his eyes linger as she walked, the soft leggings she wore settling about her curves most admirably.

It did not help that he now knew precisely what lay _under_ said coverings, all milky skin and firm flesh. He should not have looked then either, as she burst from the bed and fled into the bathroom, but she held him captivated as she did so.

Beauty.

There was no other word for it.

He should have asked if she required more money before she left, and he groaned at his thoughtlessness.

He was distracted and disgruntled, and he knew not why. But he most certainly did not like it.

Erik made his way into the cafe, the morning lines not seeming to have dissipated as he wove through the many bodies to reach the little hallway that housed the restrooms. There was no sign of Christine, so he assumed she must be in the confines within, and he waited patiently until the door opened.

Only for a different woman to emerge.

She stared at him briefly, much as he did her, before she rolled her eyes and walked away. Not caring for propriety, Erik opened the door clearly marked solely for women and peered inside, hoping to find that there were multiple stalls.

There were not.

"Excuse me, but that's the ladies' room!"

Erik turned and glared at the woman chastising him, his jaw set firmly. "Congratulations, madam, you can read."

And with that, he stormed off, trying to see if perhaps he had merely passed her in line.

He had not.

He returned to the car, thinking perhaps he had missed her altogether in his haste and she would be there waiting for him.

She was not.

And with dread settling firm and tight in his belly, he knew one simple truth.

Christine was gone.

* * *

Sooo... Surprise! Who was expecting that? One little tiff and she's outta there! Run far, Christine, because a mad Erik is never fun... And methinks if asking about his family wasn't enough, this would certainly get his ire up!

Fingers crossed for me tomorrow. I'm braving the lines to go see Star Wars...


	8. Chapter 8

Hey, look at that! I'm posting in a timely manner! Which is rather incredible to me given how much cold medicine I'm currently taking. (Remind me next year to NOT sign up for nursery duty the Sunday before Christmas. Inevitably one of the kids is sick and infects me. This is the second year in a row!) But I did get to see Star Wars and fear not, this shall be a spoiler free zone. But I think I saw it too early because none of my friends have seen it so I have no one to discuss with! Grrr...

Anyway, have a very Happy Christmas! In between coughing bouts, I shall be watching Downton's Christmas Special as well as Doctor Who. Sooo... not a bad day for me either!

But for now, onward!

* * *

viii

Erik was not generally prone to fear. Not anymore. Years of terror and pain had stripped him of such paralyzing emotions, leaving behind only anger and determination.

And yet as he stared at the empty passenger seat, he knew it, if only for a moment. Before intense annoyance settled over him.

She would dare run from him?

He knew perfectly well that there was not in fact a murderer looking to do her harm, but that did not preclude the usual evils from occurring that were typical within a city. Erik was well aware that while he was a monster, there were plenty of those to be found within the human race as well.

But Christine thought that there was a man actively pursuing her to do her harm, yet evidently she so detested his presence that she would prefer to risk that concept rather than remain with him a moment longer.

He comforted himself knowing she could not have gotten far.

The view from the car would have allowed him ample opportunity to see her flight from this direction, meaning she must have taken the second exit from the cafe and turned right. His stride was long and with every step, his hold on his temper loosened slightly. How could she? Despite his best efforts, he had grown to... care for her. From what he had seen of her at the theatre, he thought that she would be a kindly sort of person. Quiet, a bit reserved, with a lingering sadness that did not seem to suit her features very well. But with him, she _smiled_ , and he could not ignore the feeling it produced in him when it was directed at him. A longing for what most certainly could never be.

Especially if she _ran_ from him.

There did not seem to be many alleys or cross streets that she might have hidden herself, or used to divert from their original course, but he used every bit of his many talents for observation so that he would not risk missing her.

Until suddenly he spotted her coming out of a convenience store, a plastic bag in hand. He hurried his pace, ready to grab hold of her when she made to turn the opposite direction—before she could move away from him. But to his surprise, she turned and walked toward him, only to startle as she seemed to finally notice his presence. Her shoulders sagged somewhat, and he felt a moment's triumph that he had foiled whatever foolish plan she had concocted. "Did I really take that long? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I thought I could be back before you got worried."

She was coming back? Nothing about her countenance suggested she was lying to him, but he was in a temper and his voice grew snide. "You have a strange concept of what protection might mean if you think I may do so while sitting in a car parked two blocks away." He leaned in closer, watching her cheeks redden and her eyes grow wide. "Or perhaps you thought to seek protection from _me_."

Christine gripped her purchase a little tighter, her gaze settling upon his shoulder, evidently no longer able to meet his own. "Do I need to?" she asked quietly, her words wavering ever so slightly.

Erik straightened, disgust seeping into his tone. "Of course not. Though I warn you, Christine, I do not appreciate when a charge makes my job more difficult by running from me. As you have already ascertained, I make a great deal of personal sacrifice to keep people safe, and you making such foolhardy choices only adds to that burden. Do we have an understanding?"

Christine nodded, still refusing to glance at him fully, and suddenly an unfamiliar feeling of guilt clutched at him when he saw her eyes water. He had been too harsh with her. Erik sighed, battling down the last of his anger—and refusing to acknowledge the tendrils of fear and disappointment that had wrapped about his heart when he thought she had escaped him. "What was so important that you would risk your own safety?"

Christine held the bag more firmly against her. "I... it's personal."

And with that, she brushed past him and presumably began the trek back to the car.

Now that he was beginning to calm, the more rational parts of his mind noted that she truly had not gone very far. "If you had need of something, you had only but to ask. There was no need for you to run."

She halted abruptly, her eyes holding their own bit of fury. "I wasn't running from you, or trying to make your life more difficult! I'm _sorry_ that I did, but I just... I needed to get something in private, and I genuinely thought I could do that without you getting mad at me!"

Erik frowned down at her, his gaze flickering briefly to the bag still clutched tightly against her chest. "Private? What could possibly require privacy to attain?" He liked to select his weapons when he had time to peruse and handle each with care, seeing what would suit him best. But then, until just recently, he had done everything alone.

Christine glowered at him, her lips pressed into a firm line as she stared up at him, before she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of crimson. Could people come to harm from such a blush? Erik suddenly began to wonder if such a thing was possible.

"I know I shouldn't be embarrassed about something so natural, but I am. I don't even like buying these things under normal circumstances. But if you simply _must_ know, I got my period and other than what I had stashed in my purse, I forgot to pack any of my supplies. I thought I could slip down here to take care of it _without_ having to explain all of this to you, but apparently not!"

And with that, she silently stormed back to the car, waiting none too patiently by her door for him to unlock it.

Erik obliged, but he was seriously tempted not to. If he prevented her from entering the vehicle, she could not fully engage in a sulk and perhaps grow even angrier with him. But she looked so unhappy standing there, and with a sigh he stepped nearer to the car, allowing the car to unlock as he did so.

Today had been an utter disaster. Maybe he should have allowed her to sleep in later. The overage charges at the hotel would have been nothing, and with a bit more rest perhaps she would not be so very displeased with him.

But even he knew that he had pushed her too hard—broached subjects he had no business discussing with her, even on the most amiable of terms. No woman would wish to be with him, and permitting himself to consider Christine in such a light would only bring himself more heartache. And he had experienced quite enough of that in his lifetime.

They drove on in silence, but Erik was very aware of the way Christine shifted in her seat, a grimace crossing her features now and again as she seemed to struggle to find a pleasing position.

He knew little of periods.

He had studied anatomy throughout the years, both to slake his curiosity on the subject and to learn how better to care for the wounds he incurred throughout his miserable existence. But when the chapters had strayed to that of the female composition, he could not bring himself to dwell there for long—not when it served as a painful reminder of how irrelevant such information would ever be in his life. He would have no companion who suffered from such ailments, no need for the excruciating details of ovulation and conception. Not when he had never, and _would_ never be permitted to engage in such pleasures that would allow him an acquaintance with such dealings.

Especially not with Christine. He held no illusions on that point.

Erik cleared his throat, not liking the necessity of asking, but determining it a necessity. "Are you in pain? Do you require something?"

He was not expecting the vehemence of her glare, nor the way it made him feel to receive it—almost as if he was prepared to do anything she asked so they might restore the relative ease they had achieved over the past few days.

"I usually hole up in my room for the first day with a hot water bottle and some Advil. I don't suppose you have any of that in the car, would you?" He glanced at her sharply, not appreciating her biting tone, but as he looked at her, something in her seemed to crumple. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I shouldn't snap at you; you haven't done anything wrong." She placed her hands over her face, shaking her head firmly. "I'm just embarrassed and grumpy and I miss..." She stopped, dropping her hands and looking out the window the cars speeding along the highway with them.

Erik proceeded with caution. "What do you miss, Christine?"

She was quiet for a moment before she sighed, this time her eyes showing a grave sadness when next they met his. "I miss things that are familiar. I miss my routines. I'm supposed to go to Papa's grave tomorrow before I go to church and now..."

Erik felt rather helpless. Those were things he could not offer her—could not simply stop at another convenience store and find medicine to soothe away her ailments. He _had_ robbed her of such things, and there was no pretending otherwise. So instead he tried to simply get her to keep conversing. "You attend services?" He tried to keep his voice neutral, not wanting to upset her. In his earliest days, he had sought comfort there—sought answers for his deformity.

They had spoken of a _plan_. That something good would someday come of his hideousness.

Erik had left, angered and disgusted.

And then later, when all hope and goodness had left him, he had stumbled back, desperate for whatever absolution he could find.

Only to feel no peace there, not with the taints on his soul.

But they were not all his fault...

"Yes," Christine answered softly. "I don't... I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable."

Erik frowned at her. "Why would it?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I often get teased for it at the theatre. That I'm a goody-goody because I go and I enjoy it. But I... they helped me so much. First when my mother died and then with Papa. They knew him there, and that means something to me."

"A shared place," Erik confirmed, wondering what it would be like to treasure someplace simply for the memories it held. He was almost envious.

Christine seemed to blink back tears. "Yes. And now I've lost that too."

"I am sorry," Erik said, finding himself remarkably sincere. "That all this had to happen."

Christine took a deep breath, and offered him a shaky smile. "Thanks. I think... I think if we can get along, it won't be so bad though. I think we could be friends if we can manage to talk to one another better and... I'd like for us to be. Especially if we're going to be staying together."

He noted that she refused the term _living together_ , and he could not blame her for it. It suggested at things that would not be shared between them, and everything he had seen of her thus far suggested that she was a true lady—and he would not impeach her character by allowing others to make undue assumptions regarding her person.

"You shall require a ring if we are to appear married," he noted, rather abruptly if her widened eyes were any indication.

"But they're so expensive! And you've spent far too much already."

Erik watched her carefully. Her brow was slightly furrowed, and she was nibbling at her lip—something she seemed to do when she was nervous or uncomfortable. "You think so? And this... troubles you?"

Christine gave a hesitant nod. "It doesn't seem fair, that all that money is getting spent just for me... to keep me safe. I'm sure people would rather their taxes go to schools, or to roads, or..." she shrugged, and Erik bristled.

Schools or roads? Those were more important than Christine's wellbeing?

"That is ridiculous in the extreme," Erik informed her firmly. "Do you not think that the preservation of a life is worth more than such things?"

Christine shifted again, another grimace marring her features as she did so. "No," Christine conceded. "It is. But I don't know how many people would agree with you on that."

Erik rolled his eyes. He did not care what _people_ had to say. "Then we shall not poll them for their opinions." He wanted to add that she need not fret on the matter at all, that thus far only his money was being spent for her comfort and safety, but he forced himself to be silent. She could not know of such things. Ever.

As he continued to watch her squirm, Erik again stated his earlier inquiry, this time a bit more forcefully. "You did not answer me sufficiently before. Are you in pain?"

Erik could visibly see her bite back a retort, choosing instead only to nod.

When he could safely do so, Erik pulled over to the side of the highway, the cars appearing to go so much faster as he exited the vehicle and went to the back. If he had not minded Christine's fear that would have undoubtedly followed should she have begun searching through his bag and seen some of the contents therein, he simply would have sent her to the back to retrieve it herself. He withdrew a small bottle of pills. He was not a doctor, but he knew enough about medications to know that these would not harm her.

"You may take one every eight hours," he told her when he returned to the driver's seat, handing her the bottle.

"That's it?" she answered, looking at the unmarked bottle rather dubiously. "I take a lot more Advil than that." She shook the bottle suspiciously. "What are they?"

Erik smirked. "Not Advil." Christine rolled her eyes, but continued to stare at him, and he realized she was expecting a more forthright answer. "They are a pain medication with very few side effects, that should ease your discomfort. There is nothing dangerous about them, assuming you do not take more than the prescribed amount."

She arched a brow. "Prescribed... by you." She looked down at the bottle, evidently considering whether or not she trusted him enough to take it. "Isn't it illegal for me to take your medicines? I mean, _your_ doctor ordered them for you."

A doctor most certainly did not, but he was not about to explain his method of acquisition to her. "I have a few pharmaceuticals with me with the express purpose of offering them to those under my protection if their needs require them. I also have an epinephrine auto-injector. If you required that, would you also put up a fuss?" That had been a last minute addition, one that he had to specifically locate. He did not know if she had any allergies, but if she was to be under his care, he was not going to be unprepared should the situation become dire.

Christine's cheeks reddened and she smoothed her fingertip across the lid of the bottle. "I'm not making a fuss. I just don't make it a habit of taking other people's drugs."

Erik allowed her to think, even as his frustration grew. She was uncomfortable and in pain and he offered her relief, yet she argued with him. And though he told himself firmly not to allow such thoughts to enter his mind, he could not help but wonder if anyone _but_ him had given her the bottle, if she would have relented much more readily.

"They're mild, right? I won't come to you tomorrow and be begging for more?"

Erik sighed deeply and briefly closed his eyes, returning his attention to the road just as quickly once he had regained a sense of calm. "It is not my intention to make you dependent upon them, Christine, nor would those do so. You would need something far stronger than that, and I am afraid I do not have anything of the sort in my belongings should I prove so devious."

Christine winced, but nodded, undoing the cap and pulling out a small, white pill. She took it with the remnants of her tea, and eased back against the seat, her hand rubbing absently at her lower stomach—the source of her obvious discomfort.

"You don't need to take things so personally," she told him, her voice soft. "I told you I want for us to be friends, but I also can't just blindly do as you say. Not yet."

Erik very nearly wanted to retort that she was willing enough to blindly obey him into accompanying him on this very journey with a mere flash of his badge and carefully selected words. But in that she was acquiescing to a supposed figure of the law, and she doubtlessly feared she would be in trouble if she had refused. It was not that she had any particular trust for _him_. And that notion was oddly displeasing.

"There may be times when I need you to do as I say without question," Erik told her gravely. "If ever we are in danger and I give you instructions, there may not be time for me to explain all of my reasoning. I hope you can understand that." He hoped they would never find themselves in such circumstances, but he could not predict the future. And if her remembering his supposed position and the apparent risk to her life—to which he would prove the greatest barrier, at least within the confines of the story he had woven for her—then that could only make things better. He wanted her to trust him—for her not to question his motives or his care for her.

"I get that, I do. I just... hope you'll be patient with me. I've been alone for a long time and used to doing things my own way. So to have to start switching my mindset..." she shrugged, and to his very great surprise, she reached out a tentative hand and placed it lightly on his sleeve.

Erik stiffened, his usual reaction when a foolish someone dared to touch him, their intentions generally to cause harm in some manner. He braced himself, not certain what he thought she should accomplish within the confines of a car, especially when she _knew_ he carried a gun—though he could not imagine a circumstance where he would be willing to use it against her—but it was better to be prepared.

But her touch was soft and she merely held her hand upon his arm, her eyes wide and sincere as she spoke. "I am grateful for all you've done for me. I know it's your job, and you're paid to do it, but you're still... willing to do it at all. So thank you."

She removed herself from his person then, leaning against her seat before she closed her eyes, evidently desiring a nap. Yet Erik suddenly felt tense and anxious, his arm feeling strangely warm from where she had been.

And most disastrously, he wanted her to do it again.

* * *

Sooo... look who's back! Think it was stupid of her to go off like that? Would _you_ want to have that conversation? I know I wouldn't. I refuse to buy products at my usual grocery store because I've made friends with all the bag boys. Yup, I'm twelve.


	9. Chapter 9

This almost posted as a long string of code, but I caught it in time! And this is another one that should probably have been cut somewhere but... ah well. I doubt anyone will complain :)

Keep the reviews coming! I do so love to hear from you. And I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas! I know mine was.

* * *

ix

"Christine," Erik murmured softly, and she grumbled, opening one eye to glare at him for waking her.

"I'm sleeping," she unnecessarily informed him, ever mindful of how petulant she sounded. But she gave herself permission for her momentary childishness. When she'd gone to sleep, her cramps had been horrible things, making her long for the comfort of her own bed, her wonderful blankets, and the rest she could find there. But as she considered her condition now, she felt markedly improved. Apparently while _mild_ , those little pills were effective.

"I am well aware of that," Erik answered dryly. "You seem to do little else." Her eyes flew open at that, and she opened her mouth to offer an angry retort, but Erik continued before she could do so. "Excellent, you have rejoined the living. Would you care to notice that we are no longer moving?"

Christine sat up hurriedly. "We're not?"

Erik peered at her from the driver's seat. "Apparently I have kept you confined to the car for too long. You seem to have forgotten that such a thing is possible."

Christine smirked, realizing he was teasing her. She much preferred his little taunts to his genuine displeasure, and she hoped his good mood continued. "Is it safe to get out?"

"Yes," Erik confirmed. "But do not stray from where I can see you."

Normally such a warning would be most unwelcome—a nod to her days in girlhood when her actions and judgment were not to be trusted. But Christine remembered his earlier words, and she could not forget that his primary motivations were to keep her safe. And she could not bristle every time he reminded her of that fact.

No matter how she might wish to.

The air was cooler than she'd expected. It was late summer, and while her home had been almost oppressive at times with its heat and humid air, here there was a delicious breeze that swept over the water, crisp and tingling with salt. She'd never seen anything like it. Papa had always promised to take her to the ocean. But while they had lived comfortably, money was never exorbitant, and he'd never actually owned a car of his own to make a trip like this possible. But his intention had been there, which made Christine's request to Erik all the more poignant. Maybe then her papa would approve her relocation, at least for a time. She might have been forced to abandon the theatre they both loved, but as she stood, facing the vastness of the water and experienced the crashing of ever determined waves, she grew hopeful.

"Does it meet with your approval?"

Christine turned, managing to tear her eyes from the sight for a moment in order to give him a beaming smile. "It's beautiful." She blushed at the realization that she'd paid so little attention to their direction. "This is the Pacific, right?"

Erik gave her an incredulous glance, before he gave a single nod of confirmation. "We are at the western coast, yes."

"What made you pick west?"

East was a bit closer, with New York and the theatres there providing some hope that she could find a similar job to the one she already possessed. Even now, she worried at her ability to find work—but she supposed that anyone could start waiting tables; it was simply a matter of learning how to do it properly. And she did not want to impose on Erik and his resources for too much longer, regardless of how he assured her that it was all acceptable.

Christine shivered at a particularly persistent nip in the air, and Erik frowned at her. "You are cold."

She shrugged, not wishing to lie with denial, but unwilling to do anything about it either. She saw a bench a few yards away, and remembering Erik's earlier pronouncement, she determined it was close enough that he wouldn't worry.

She had taken to going barefoot in the car, abandoning her flats in favor of having the comfort of no shoes at all, but she had grabbed this pair from the back before she'd allowed Erik to help her from the SUV. As she stepped forward, however, she noted that the path in front of her was more rock and sand than smooth pavement, and after she nearly slipped from her shoe protesting the terrain, she plucked both from her feet and carried them as she progressed toward the bench.

She enjoyed the quiet. It surprised her a little that such a beautiful place seemed practically deserted, only a few joggers and a man with his dog interrupting her view of the ocean and horizon.

Christine startled when something was placed about her shoulders, and belatedly she recognized it as her thick sweater she had taken to wearing to bed to cover up her nighties from Erik's view.

Which meant he had rifled through her suitcase.

She tried to muster up any feeling of annoyance for him having done so, but it was so beautiful about them, and she was grateful for the warmth it would provide. "Thank you," she told him as she pushed her arms through the sleeves.

Erik walked around the side of the bench, halting for a moment as he took in the state of her feet. "I see your shoes prove no more desirable out of the car than they do on the inside. I wonder why you own them at all."

Christine patted the bench beside her, partly because she desired the company and partly because she feared he would continue to stare at her uncovered feet, willing them into being covered by the force of his gaze alone. "Sit with me."

Erik hesitated briefly before he complied, his long legs stretched out before him. "What are we looking at?"

Christine gaped at him briefly, before she shook her head. Could such beauty truly become commonplace simply through continued exposure? She hoped not.

"We're appreciating the day, and the magnificence of the Pacific." She gave him a teasing glance. "And, one of us is enjoying the feeling of sand between her toes."

Erik scoffed slightly at that, scowling at her bare feet. "You will require a tetanus shot. And _that_ is something that I do not carry with me."

Christine rolled her eyes, but did see some logic in being careful. She didn't want to end up with bloody feet and an infection just because she was choosing to enjoy this moment. "I promise to sit right here and not step on anything sharp. And then if it bothers you _that_ much, you can carry me back to the car."

She had not meant it. Not in the least bit. She would evaluate the walkway for anything that looked dangerous, and at most she would have accepted his arm to steady her if her shoes decided to be uncooperative again.

But as Erik looked at her, a very satisfied glint came into his eyes, and she realized that he took that as a genuine offer to do so. Christine swallowed, and looked back out at the waves, trying to decide if any harm would come from allowing him to actually do it. She didn't want to lead him on, but she also did not want to read more into his intentions then he intended, and perhaps he was simply being amiable and playful.

She decided it would be much easier to enjoy him and his teases if she determined only to address the issue directly if he became particularly forward. And so far he seemed more friendly than anything, and as long as he kept his temper and did not begrudge her if ever she said no...

The joggers moved on as did the man with his dog, and Christine suddenly felt very small as she sat there. She pictured slipping into the waves and being pulled into the depths, lost in a churning, unfeeling world of water and foreign animals, with no one to miss her when she was gone.

And suddenly she missed Meg terribly, and guilt prickled at her conscience for not having made more of an effort in their relationship.

They were friends at the theatre, though Meg was a dancer and Christine part of the chorus and their rehearsals did not always overlap. Meg had often urged Christine to come out with her, to be a bit more social and embrace the other girls, but Christine was hesitant and withdrawn, and she realized now how wrong that was.

She had only herself to blame for her loneliness. People had been there, willing and able to give her companionship, but she hadn't been ready.

And now she was alone.

"Do you think..." Christine cleared her throat, pushing away the tears that threatened. She'd had quite enough of crying. "Do you think it would be possible for me to call my friend? And just... talk to her? Say I'm sorry for disappearing for a while?"

She knew his answer even before he spoke. It didn't make it any less difficult to hear. "It is possible for traces to be put on the phones of those closest to you, just for this very reason. I am sorry."

Christine nodded, pulling her sweater a bit more tightly about her, more for comfort than because of the temperature. "She'll worry. I should have... I should've called before you came. Told her what was going on and that there was a possibility I'd have to leave. At least then she'd know."

Erik raised his hand, and for a brief moment she thought he would pat her shoulder, but then he dropped it again. She tried not to be disappointed. "Detective Nadir will doubtlessly inform her of the situation." There was something rather odd about the way he said that, a little too controlled, his tone too flat.

"He will? And he'll tell her that I'm being taken care of?"

Erik stared steadily toward the water beyond. "He is quite adequate at his job. You need not worry."

That didn't answer her question fully, but she did not press him anymore. These were gruff and seasoned policemen, and it shouldn't surprise her that they would not think to offer comfort along with the reality of a situation. Officer Grady had been thoughtful though, and maybe he would tag along and explain things better to Meg.

Christine smiled softly. They would make a sweet couple, if Meg would only realize she didn't have to snag one of the rich donors that frequented the theatre in order to be happy.

"What will we do now? Is there a safe-house nearby or something?"

Erik shook his head. "Not in this location. We'll have to look for suitable housing just like everybody else. In the meantime, we will stay at a hotel as we have been."

Christine sighed. "That sounds expensive."

Erik's eyes narrowed at her. "I have tried to express to you that you needn't fret on that subject. You will be well provided for. Have I yet to supply you with something you require?"

She thought briefly of her menstrual supplies stashed under her seat in the car. But that hadn't been his fault—not really. If she hadn't been so embarrassed by the entire subject, she could simply have asked him to stop at a drug store so she could have made her purchase. But it felt wrong to ask him to pay for all these things, and not for the first time she wished she had disregarded his order to leave her debit card behind.

"You've been very generous with everything," she assured him quietly, still feeling rotten about the whole thing. "But I feel like a mooch and I think it'll stay that way until I get a job of my own and start taking care of some of these bills myself."

Erik stiffened beside her. "You are not responsible for any such thing. I will take care of it."

Christine closed her eyes, choosing not to argue. It was such a pretty day, and the last thing they needed was another disagreement. They would find a house and get settled, then she would bring up the subject of getting a job so she could start paying half of the expenses. Or at least paying for the things that were strictly for herself.

"I don't want us to fight, Erik. Not right now. Let's just enjoy the day."

She brought her feet up and rested her chin on her knees, and she continued to enjoy the salty breeze. But Erik did not relax, and he shifted often. Slightly annoyed that he proved such a distraction, she turned toward him. "Are you anxious to leave?"

"No," he assured her hastily, but he didn't seem entirely truthful.

Perhaps she should have been more obliging—he wasn't being paid to see to her every whim, but she also was not going to allow him to ruin her first experience with the ocean.

She stood and Erik was quick to follow, but instead of heading back toward the car, she walked determinedly toward the waves.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked, hastening to her side.

"I'm going to put my feet in the water. You might not want to follow." She looked pointedly down at his black shoes. Shiny and polished as they were, she did not think that the sand and water would be good for them.

"We discussed this; it is not safe for you to be walking without any coverings for your feet."

Christine huffed and stopped, forcing herself to tamp down her ire. Hormones. That's all it was. Normally she could tease and be light and carefree, dismissing his concerns with a well placed smile. But today it grated, and she didn't want it to. Not when his worry for her was so obviously sincere. She forced a lightness into her tone before she addressed him again. "Erik, I told you that I would let you carry me to the car if you wanted to. But I've always wanted to do this and I would appreciate if you could just... let me experience this. Please." She glanced down at his shoes again. "You could come with me. When was the last time you put your feet in the water?"

He looked so horrified at her question that she could not help but laugh. "That's what I thought."

And with that, she strode toward the water's edge, enjoying the tickle as the cold lapped against her toes, leaving behind wet sand and pebbles to mingle with her skin.

Christine found it all quite enchanting.

And did not at all expect when Erik was suddenly at her side, his pant legs carefully cuffed beneath his knees, his feet just as bare as hers.

And she smiled.

Erik had been certain that his mind had been lost to him when first he had decided to convince Christine to leave her home with him.

Yet now he was even more so.

He knew he had grown more indulgent of Christine than he had ever thought possible, but to do this, join her on the beach and expose his too-thin feet to the open air…

He had thought he was mad before, but she had driven him to near insanity.

That was the only possible explanation for why he had acquiesced to her suggestion of joining her in indulging in the seawater.

This beach held no great novelty to him. He had seen many, though perhaps this one had a few more rocks interrupting the endless sands than others of his acquaintance. But somehow, being here with Christine...

She made it different.

And so before he could chastise himself too thoroughly—to remind himself that to remove his shoes and step into the surf was far beneath his dignity, he did so.

And then when she smiled at him, her eyes so bright and full of mirth to suddenly find him beside her, he knew that whatever madness and insanity had taken hold of him was well worth the sacrifice, if only she would continue to look at him that way.

He cleared his throat, trying to distract himself from how her beauty affected him. "How long must we do this?"

Christine laughed, walking a little deeper until the water soaked up to her ankles when the next wave hit. "Until my toes turn blue."

Erik's eyes narrowed, not at all in agreement that her appendages should have to protest so completely before he returned her to the comforts of the car. He was about to correct her when she took another step, and then another, and he suddenly grew nervous. "I hope you do not feel the need to immerse your entire person. It is my responsibility to protect you, but I do not relish the thought of a deep water rescue."

Christine turned back, her expression soft. "I wouldn't ask that of you, Erik. But it tickles my toes and I wanted to see if it always felt that way." She gestured him forward. "Come on, you're already wet, so you might as well join me."

Before he could inform his limbs that following was in poor taste; that he would await her on the bench they had vacated until she had returned to her senses, he found himself once more at her side.

"No further," he told her firmly, although he could still hear the slight tremor in his own voice.

Christine glanced up at him, her features suddenly marred by a frown. "Are you all right?" She looked back over the water, and her expression smoothed to one of sympathy. "Are you afraid of the water? Of drowning?"

Erik sniffed, wishing he could provide a more adamant refusal, but the clutching fear in his belly prevented it. "I had... a poor experience with water when I was young."

An understatement to be sure, but he would not subject her to knowledge of the abuses he suffered. He would paint her a happy fantasy of her protector—that he was strong and capable, that he could provide for her every need. She did not want to know of the times when he was young and helpless, when cruel hands had held his hideous head beneath the water until his lungs had burned for air, and he desperately struggled until at last he was released.

For years his world had been a thing of nightmares and pain, and it shamed him how long it had lasted. His freedom had come at great cost, he was not ignorant of that. But he did not like to dwell on it lest a great melancholy take hold that was usually only partially driven away by a few hours communing with his music. But he had forsaken his instruments, and that had been the most painful thing about his sudden departure. He could purchase more; of course he could. But he had crafted those with care. His beloved pipe organ with its resounding and powerful tones. His violin that had the power to make men weep with its mournful melodies.

Yet he had left it all.

For her.

So he would not have to cause her any physical unpleasantness.

He startled when her hand was suddenly on his, a gesture he supposed was meant to comfort. But he was unused to such things, and it felt strange and odd, and he could not help but tense. "I'm not a great swimmer, either. Papa would take me to the lake and try to teach me, but I'm afraid I wasn't a very good student." Her smile was a thin one. "I can doggy-paddle, and keep my head above the water, but when it comes to floating even..." She shrugged and squeezed his hand. "So we won't be going any deeper. Promise."

Erik had to swallow, his throat suddenly a dry and parched place, wondering at what this young woman was doing to him. He did not recognize the feelings she stirred him in, but they were not wholly unpleasant aside from the lingering ache that suddenly was in his heart.

Many nights he had lain awake, simply awaiting a time when he could announce that she had rested long enough. He felt rather pathetic for doing so, but he... enjoyed her. Her company.

And he had yet to determine if that was such a terrible thing.

But to his very great horror, he very nearly wanted to tell her the truth and correct her assumptions. That he had not nearly drowned because of a lack of skill—that if needed, he would be able to save her from her own poor abilities if she needed him. It was tempting to be sure. That perhaps, if he simply spoke of it aloud, some of those nightmares would be put to rest, should she look at him in that soft way, with kindness and sympathy that even he could not twist into some detestable form of pity.

He could not bring himself to extract his hand from hers, but eventually she released him, her cheeks suddenly red, though he could not be certain if it was from her lingering touch or because the wind was colder now that they were closer to the water.

Her feet were buried in the sand so he could not adequately judge the state of her toes, but Erik had experienced quite enough. When next she shivered, he ensured he had a firm grip on his shoes before he moved quickly, knocking her knees from under her with one arm while supporting her back with his other, striding confidently back to the car before he could chastise himself from doing so.

He grimaced at the sharp pebbles against his feet, and he cringed somewhat when he imagined the state of them when they returned to the vehicle. He had wipes in the glove compartment, and he would most assuredly be making use of them, for both himself and for Christine.

"Erik!" she yelped at the suddenness of the entire action. "I really can walk back myself!"

He knew she could. But she had given permission and it was too tempting an offer to refuse.

"I am well aware of the capabilities of your legs, Christine." And how they looked with only a short nightgown to cover them.

Even through her sweater, he could feel that she was cold, and with thoughts like those flitting through his mind, and with the current knowledge of how good she felt in his arms, it was most certainly time for them to leave.

A hotel held temporary appeal. A place to change and to wash properly. To command food be brought to their rooms with a mere telephone call.

But he needed to find her a home.

A true home.

One where she could be happy, and she would smile.

And maybe even, sometimes, it could be at him.

* * *

Sooo... looks like our Erik is actually a bit of a softie! Does that come as a surprise to anyone? Who's the big murdering lout now?

New story on the brain, probably furthered by thoughts of Star Wars. Sci-Fi/Fantasy is not my typical genre, though goodness knows after so many years _watching_ it, it certainly should be. Get to brush up on all my alien races now! I admit it, I'm excited.

But for now, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment!


	10. Chapter 10

Look! I'm posting at a somewhat reasonable time! I know, I know, hold the applause...

Last update of the year! Here's to many more in the new one :)

Onward!

* * *

x

Living in a house was unfamiliar to Christine. She had always lived in apartments, even with her parents, and the concept of yards—of neighbors a full property line away—was an odd one.

She might have liked it more if between Erik and herself they had more things to make it feel homey. The house he'd found for them to rent was of a modest size and even came with basic furnishings, yet aside from the few pictures and keepsakes she'd stashed in her suitcase, it all felt rather sterile.

Erik didn't seem to mind in the least. "There is less to move in order to dust," he had reminded her on more than one occasion, and each time she had struggled to keep from rolling her eyes. There was nothing untrue about it, but she did not see any problem spending a few extra seconds moving an item aside for the sake of a more pleasing atmosphere.

Yet she was currently without the means to actually purchase such things, the cash in her purse sparse and Erik still being difficult in regard to her employment.

"It is not necessary. I have told you this and would appreciate if you would cease your attempts to persuade me otherwise."

Christine took a deep breath and pushed her fork through the potato salad she'd made. Since their arrival here a few days ago, she had come to discover that Erik was a truly terrible cook. He claimed that all of the knowledge was hidden away in the recesses of his mind, but when it came to application... The eggs he had scrambled the first morning were tough and rubbery things, his determination to see them thoroughly cooked—so as not to poison her with salmonella as he had gravely explained—ruining any semblance of a desirable texture. Christine had thanked him, and been quite genuine about it. His thoughtfulness was appreciated, but there was no possibility that she would manage to choke down his breakfast offerings.

She had taken to cooking since then.

It was amazing to her how different it was to once more cook for two. She and Papa had cooked together when her mother died, and it was usually a joyful experience, with teasing and laughing and singing as they maneuvered their tiny kitchen.

Here it was a more solemn affair, though Erik had taken to sitting at one of the bar stools and staring at her.

If he kept it up much longer she most certainly would be putting him to work. He made her nervous, and that was not a feeling she appreciated when handling sharp objects.

But now she sat across from him at their little kitchen table, trying to finish her own lunch while once again having, not only to convince him that she should begin her job hunt today, but also failing to urge him to eat something of his own.

"Erik," she responded reasonably—or at least, she hoped it sounded so. "We're starting a life here. And part of that means finding work."

He stared at her stonily from across the table, and she tried again.

"It's not even about the money," she insisted, and it was true. It was _mostly_ about wanting to have her own money, but she also wanted people. Friends. Others to care about her, and who she could care for in return. Erik had begun keeping a careful distance between them ever since they'd moved here. He retired to his room fairly early each evening, leaving her in the living room to try to find something to watch on TV or read from her sparse collection of books.

It was lonely.

And she was trying very hard not to come to resent it.

She understood, truly she did. It was his responsibility to remain professional and aloof, not to be her friend. He was only there with her to keep her safe, and to pretend otherwise—no matter what they told the neighbors—would be unfair to both of them. For all she knew, he had a wife and children waiting for him at home, wherever that might be.

She took a drink of water as she pushed away the thought, not wanting to dwell on it. It made everything too strange and uncomfortable to think that she might be living with another woman's husband.

"If it is not about _money_ ," Erik's tone clearly showed his distaste for the very concept of it, let alone their continued conversation regarding its importance. She already felt like a nag. "Then what is your motivation?"

She sighed, pushing away her unfinished plate, suddenly not feeling very hungry. "Don't you ever feel isolated here? If we're going to be staying here for a while, I need... well... friends." Guilt still ate at her frequently when she realized how she had dismissed the kind people at the theatre who had offered her friendship so freely. It was true that she had been in rather a daze since her papa's passing, too sad and morose to consider forming any kind of deep relationships. But she recognized now that she had been rude in the process, keeping everyone at a careful distance so as to protect her own feelings.

And now she missed them, and could do nothing to apologize for her coldness.

Erik had stiffened at her question, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "You are unhappy here? If you require a different house, or more items to collect dust, then I shall rectify these things immediately."

Christine smiled sadly, finding his desire to please very sweet, but also feeling worse as she very nearly took him up on his offer. "I'm taking advantage of you, Erik, and someday you'll see that. And I... I really don't want to do that. You can't be everything to me here, it's won't be fair to you when you go back home, and it... it won't do me any favors when you leave." She didn't bring up his family, remembering how poorly he had taken it before, but still she wondered about it.

Erik was silent for a long moment, and Christine was very nearly ready to take her dishes into the kitchen to clean up when at last he spoke. "You seem to be under some misapprehension. I shall not be leaving you, not for a long while, so you need not fret about abandonment. I had not… realized that you felt lonely in my company." His head tilted slightly to the side. "What must I do to rectify such a sensation?"

Christine stared at him, not at all certain how to respond. He was always so quick to please, yet she floundered in how to react to him all the same. "Erik, I don't want to pressure you. You deserve some time to yourself. You don't need to babysit me."

He seemed displeased by her assessment. "I thought you would value privacy since you were afforded so little on our journey. Was I mistaken?"

She couldn't deny that it was nice to have her own room, with a door and a lock that this time he allowed her to use. He had insisted she take the master bedroom, so her bathroom was her own as well, without a chance of Erik mistakenly intruding or seeing glimpses of her nightgown.

"You've been a perfect gentleman, Erik. I just… I know I'm used to living alone and maybe I'm being ridiculous, but now that there's someone _here_ I just…" She sighed, not feeling she was adequately putting her feelings into words at all. Perhaps she should attempt a different approach. "What do you like to do for fun?"

"Fun," Erik muttered, the word seemingly foreign to him. "For personal enjoyment?"

Christine shrugged. "Sure. A hobby. Something not to do with work but just… for yourself."

Erik evidently held a great deal of distaste for the word _hobby_ , but he answered her all the same. "Music. I am... was... a composer and musician."

Christine blinked at him, not at all expecting that. "Really? What did you play?"

Erik shrugged. "Most anything. The violin was my first acquisition, and I suppose you could call it a favorite. It seems wrong to do so, however."

He watched her carefully, and belatedly she realized that her fingers had strayed to her papa's ring settled on its chain about her neck. She forced her hand down and willed herself not to get overly emotional. Lots of people played the violin—she worked with some nearly every day. There was no need for dramatics. "Bit like choosing a favorite child?"

Erik gave her a thin smile. "I suppose. Though I have no experience with children."

Christine reached out and rubbed her finger against the edge of her plate. No _experience_ with children wasn't exactly the same thing as not having them, was it? Perhaps his wife had their baby while he was on assignment and he hadn't even had time yet to meet his little one properly. That had happened to Meg's cousin once. He'd been on deployment when his wife had given birth to their first son, and the baby was months old by the time he had finally gotten to meet him.

A terrible thing, to be sure, and Christine had felt very sorry for the mother, raising an infant without the help and support of her husband.

Was Erik's situation similar?

She should simply ask him for more particulars about his personal life. They were no longer trapped in the confines of the car, and she was slightly less dependent upon him for entertainment and necessities, so maybe it was worth his potential upset for her own peace of mind. She hesitated, returning to their current subject of conversation. "Why did you stop if you enjoyed it?"

Erik looked at her rather pointedly. "A certain relocation made it impossible for me to continue."

That sinking, horrible feeling returned that she had most definitely ruined this man's life. She tried to reason with herself that it was not her fault—that she had not asked to witness the Phantom's crime, nor even asked to be taken into protection. Yet here she was, and this man had to abandon his music for her sake.

"You could... you could always play here. I hate the thought of you wasting your musical talent just to take care of me."

Erik sighed and shook his head. "You take too much blame upon yourself."

She nodded, this argument nearly as old as their time together. Maybe at some point she would come to accept that, but for now—with him sitting across from her and months of potential loneliness before them both—she knew it would not be today.

"May I ask you something? Without you... without you getting mad at me for prying?"

Erik straightened, eyeing her carefully for a long moment before inclining his head ever so slightly. She took that as permission to continue. "Do you have a wife at home? A child, maybe?" Even saying the words aloud made her stomach clench unpleasantly. She felt horrible for feeling so uncomfortable at the thought. If she was more gracious, more generous, she would be glad that he had someone to love him when at last she was safe and the Phantom caught, that he would have a happy home to return to when she went back to her solitary apartment and tried to scrape together some semblance of a life once more.

What kind of a selfish being was she that she could begrudge him that?

"Why?"

Christine startled at his question, not expecting it at all. "Why, what?"

She could not properly gauge his expression. He did not look mad, not exactly, but he was not wholly pleased by her enquiry either. "Why would you ask me such a thing?"

Christine fidgeted slightly from the intensity of his gaze, and she wished she had not asked. It was better just to presume that he had, and act accordingly. Careful distance, respect for his person as he might be someone else's husband. But instead she had tried to soothe her own disgruntled feelings, and now he was clearly unhappy with her.

"We're living together," she defended lamely. "You're going to start introducing yourself to people as my husband and I just..." she gave a helpless little shrug. "I wanted to know if I was robbing another woman of that right. If I would be hurting her to allow you to do that."

She expected a verbal answer—a mere confirmation or denial of her question so she could at least potentially absolve her growing guilt of this one item. But instead Erik reached into his pocket, and slid a black velvet box in her direction.

And with trembling fingers, she accepted it.

This was not how Erik had intended to present her with it.

Any more romantic gestures seemed to mock him, a reminder of how contrary their relationship truly was to anything that would warrant such a display. He had finally decided that he would place it on her bedside table while she slept, a simple note explaining that he had found a suitable ring should she wish to claim him as her husband in public as they had previously discussed.

Yet now he was offering it to her when he could actually see her reaction, and already he regretted it.

Christine lifted the lid, and her fingers drifted over the smooth gold band, and he wondered if she was disappointed. He could have provided something extravagant— the jeweler had been most determined as he led him through every manner of showy, diamond encrusted articles.

But he was insistent, and he watched with growing unease as Christine lifted the ring from its box, and she slid the ring onto her appropriate finger.

And he tried to ignore the feeling that it instilled in him.

That it almost seemed real.

She smiled at him, and he looked for any signs of hidden displeasure, but it seemed genuine enough. "It's lovely, Erik." Her delicate hand drifted to her father's ring for a brief moment, before she instead began fiddling with the one on her own. "They look alike."

He was not unaware of that fact, though hers was far more feminine and suited her hand much better. "While wearing that ring, you may rest assured that there is no other woman in this world who would call me husband, or even father. Do you understand?" He gave her a rather morose smile. "No woman would wish to, yet still you seem to find it necessary to ask."

Christine looked back at him in surprise. "Why wouldn't they? You're kind, and caring, and far too generous." She looked back down at her ring, and he was pleased to see that it fit her properly. "It's very comfortable."

He very nearly frowned at that. Comfort was important, yes, but he had chosen this style for a reason. "You should have a diamond, some day. Something lovely enough that it is worthy of your own—" he halted abruptly, not wishing to make her uncomfortable as he complimented her loveliness. As if a ring could possibly compare to her beauty. "You shall have a proposal someday, as the man you love asks you to be his bride." His heart clenched painfully at the thought, not liking it at all. He comforted himself with the knowledge that this could not actually occur unless he allowed it. And at the moment he most certainly had no intention of doing so.

Erik remembered that boy she had clung to when she had first run from him, and his lip nearly curled. He had heard everything, had watched as she'd told of their encounter to the Daroga and his men, all the while that young man hovering nearby. At the time he had been focused on Christine, considering and plotting what to do with her.

Disposing of her would have been the simple thing to do—would silence her without any more fuss on his part.

But a feeling of dread filled his belly whenever he lingered too long on the thought, and as he had stood, watching her terrified face as she recounted what he had done, he knew that he could never fulfill such a charge. Not when she was an innocent.

Erik took a calming breath, pushing away any thoughts of Raoul de Chagny that suddenly seemed so abhorrent to him, before he continued. "I hoped that by providing you something simple..." He stopped, noting the way her eyes glimmered. His own narrowed as he regarded her. "Why are you crying?"

Christine brushed away the small amount of wetness that her eyes produced, shaking her head. "I'm not. Really. I feel as if all I do is cry." She gave him a shaky smile, and Erik felt another tug of guilt at his heart. He doubted she'd had any reason to cry before she had the misfortune of crossing his path. She was probably happy, and he had ruined everything. "It's just so thoughtful for you to want me to get to experience things like that still."

He startled when suddenly she reached forward and laid her hand upon his arm. "Thank you."

Erik merely nodded, wondering if this was simply the way of Christine when she received a ring.

She had cried when he had presented her with her father's ring, and apparently felt the need to do so now. The former had been much more difficult to procure, but he had felt a token of good will would go far to smoothing the way toward her accepting him. A badge might not have been sufficient. It seemed to have been successful, for her trust in him was fairly absolute, and it made it worth the hours he had poured over the theatre in search of it. He had spoken truly—it had managed to find its way within the relative vicinity of the crime scene, Christine's presence there a wise one, if not equally unfortunate for her.

The only reason he had known it was not a prop was the engraving on the inside. Unless a prop had been selected from an antique shop, or a donated relic from a family history, the words _to my dearest love_ etched painstakingly on the inside of the band would not have been present.

But they had been, and Erik had felt quite accomplished when he found the box of prop rings and saw it sitting patiently at the top until he could once more return it to its rightful place. Paul, the prop master, might not have been the kindliest of men, but Erik had always admired his efficiency.

"You will wear it then?" Erik confirmed, unsettled by how much he liked to see his ring upon her finger. None of this was his intention. He was saving her from a trial that could never be, a life plagued by nightmares as a detective filled her head with the many dangers that would never reach her.

He had not intended to feel things for her—to ache in ways he had never known. For smiles and comfort and feelings of home. To lie in bed and question if she was well, to briefly wonder what it would be like to instead lie beside _her_. Those thoughts he entertained only for a moment before he shoved them most firmly aside. To dwell on them would only be a torment, a tease of what any other man might be able to secure, but not him. Not when she was loveliness itself and he was...

Monstrous. A murderer. A corpse.

She thought he had no interest in spending his evenings with her, but retreating to his room had become an infuriating necessity. The mask he wore was relatively untested before he had begun using it on a daily basis. She had never questioned it, never stared overly long at the seams—at least, not to his knowledge, and he watched her carefully to circumvent any questions she might have. Christine accepted him for someone normal, and he dearly wished that he could continue to be so, at least in her eyes.

Yet the delicate skin of his face was beginning to react poorly with the adhesive. Red, inflamed skin had to be given respite, and he could not solely keep to the times when she slept. He needed ample time to reapply it before she woke, and he was now having to research other potential elements that might prove more effective without compromising the natural state of his face.

If he had thought it had been grotesque before, it was certainly not benefited by broken capillaries and heated flesh.

Which Christine would never, ever see. Not when he could help it.

But she would have to be told something so she did not continue to foolishly press to find employment. He would not keep her prisoner, but it felt... wrong for her to have to pay for her accommodations, for her own care. Not when both were required because of him. Yet he could not tell her the truth of that, so he would have to be very careful in his explanations, without also inciting her displeasure.

And with Christine, he was finding that could be incredibly difficult to accomplish—though things were remarkably improved now that he assumed her... womanly times... had come to an end.

Her hand suddenly left his arm, and he was pleased to see her smoothing the pad of her forefinger over the gold of her ring once more. "Of course I'll wear it." She nibbled at her lip briefly, doubt suddenly flickering across her features. "But I don't have one for you."

She glanced down briefly at her father's ring, not yet tucked back under her shirt, but Erik held up his hand to cease her obvious intention. "You needn't sacrifice such a thing for me, Christine. Plenty of men do not wear a wedding band." He did not know if it was true, or whether he had simply seen a bared hand due to infidelity, but he had little intention of going outside in any case.

And for some reason he did not care to dwell upon, if a ring ever graced his finger, he needed it to be truthful. Christine had consented to wear one with the promise of another in her future, but he knew that no such symbol was forthcoming in his own.

And suddenly that hurt far more than it did before.

* * *

Sooo... looks like Christine has a ring! And Erik's starting to be sorry that it isn't real...

Come as a surprising to anyone? I think not...

Have a happy (and safe!) New Year's! Mine will involve lots of Star Trek and Rune Factory and _FP33_ chapters... Yes, you may all be jealous. :P


	11. Chapter 11

Bit of a wonky day for me today (or week really). Start orientation for a new job tomorrow, new medication, an apparently broken review system on FF... Has me all a bit down. Oh yes, and the frustration of trying to book tickets to Scotland without going bankrupt! It's not going well. And this is not getting me in a very good mental place for starting my new book, and here I was so excited for in December... Le sigh...

But, as promised, a new update!

* * *

xi

Christine could not stop touching her new ring. There was something charming in its simplicity, something endearing in the way it mimicked her papa's. And Erik had chosen it.

"We must discuss how your evenings could be formed more to your liking."

Christine's smile faded, not liking the turn of their conversation. Jewelry was nice; speaking about all of her lonely and abandoned feelings was not.

"I really do understand," she assured him. "I just need to find new ways to occupy myself, that's all. I can't be adding one more thing to your list of responsibilities."

Erik shook his head. "If you are bored or unhappy, I am not performing my job adequately." He looked at her intently. "And I would prefer to prove most satisfactory in my performance."

Christine's mouth suddenly seemed to lack moisture, and she reached for her glass of water and took a few slow, methodical sips as she tried to gather her thoughts. "I... I could get a library card," she suggested, finding that she couldn't quite look at him. Not when his eyes and his tone had affected her so. "I only brought a few books with me and while I love them, I need something new."

Erik's lips turned downward. "Books? That is all that would please you?"

What did he want for her to say? That she would much prefer that he sit and talk with her, that the idea of introducing music back into her life—their lives—was an appealing one? It was all true, but she trespassed on his thoughtfulness frequently enough without also haranguing him during his free time.

"Yes, unless you want for me to be absolutely truthful."

Erik's eyes glittered strangely and he sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her. It made her skin prickle. "I would be most offended if I learned you were attempting deceit, Christine. You must be honest with me in all things."

Christine plucked at her napkin, knowing full well there were thoughts she most certainly would not be sharing with him. It was true that there had to be some kind of understanding between them, otherwise she might be tempted to act on her desire to slip away from the house, to take walks and explore her new home unaccompanied. She was unused to having to check with another before she followed her whims, and while Erik had assured her that he was happy to join her if ever she should wish to leave, when he was locked away in his room, the front door beckoned her—that maybe she could find a friend somewhere to share an evening with her.

But he would be cross with her if she mentioned that. She knew how dangerous that would be—that she would end up putting both her life and his job at risk if she left again without informing him. She still bristled somewhat at having to apologize when she'd slipped away to purchase her feminine supplies, but in her more generous moments she recognized her error.

Honesty. It was what he requested, and what she could at least... attempt to provide.

"We could... take walks. I'd like to get to know the area better and maybe I'll start feeling more settled. More at home."

Erik did not look particularly pleased, but he did not reject her idea outright. "You would allow me to accompany you?"

Christine tried to smile, but she knew it looked rather forced. "If you'd like to. I don't want to force you into anything, but I'm aware that it would be dangerous if I went by myself."

Something changed in his expression, but she could not exactly determine its cause. "So you would prefer to go alone."

Christine shook her head fervently, remembering how he had twisted her words during their travels, her innocent comments taken so very personally. "I don't want you to have to do things you don't want to. I can only ask you to do so much with me simply because it's your job. I'm not that selfish." Or at least, she wasn't trying to be. It was so easy to take advantage of someone so intent on pleasing her, and she could not— _would_ not—allow herself to abuse his generosity.

If only he could understand that.

Erik sighed, his long arms crossing over his chest as he continued to stare at her. "Speak plainly, Christine. What would you ask of me?"

She was very nearly irritated that he would insist she ask so directly, especially when his feelings on the subject remained a mystery. "Only if you do the same," she unthinkingly retorted, ready to clap a hand over her mouth when she realized she had spoken at all. "I'm sorry, that wasn't called for."

Instead of chastising her for her rudeness, Erik inclined his head slightly and gestured for her to continue. "A reasonable trade. So I shall ask again. What would make you happy?" His lips thinned. "Or if such a thing is not possible, at the very least, more content?"

Christine kept fiddling with her napkin, feeling as if he was exposing some of her innermost desires to his perusal. Perhaps she should simply list a few more activities that appealed to her. Or admitted that she missed his company in the evenings.

But instead she found herself describing the life she found most ideal.

And perhaps he could pick for himself what could be most reasonably accomplished.

"Papa always said I belonged on the stage. And I did... do... love it. There's something thrilling about it, though terrifying at the same time. All those people staring, your voice mingling with the instruments and the other singers..." Christine grimaced. "But I think he'd be ashamed of me. He thought I would go so far, but when he died..." Her shoulders rose and fell, not dissimilar to her mood. "I feel like that part of me died with him. The theatre was kind and kept me, but I had no illusions that I would suddenly become the Prima Donna. Not with how I'd been acting."

Erik was studying her, something calculating in his gaze. "If you had been tutored, would you have felt differently?"

Her brow furrowed. "Maybe? I don't know. Papa was always the one teaching me, helping me. Our evenings would be spent just the two of us, me singing and him playing after we'd finished the dinner dishes. I miss that..." But this was not what he'd asked, so she pushed away those thoughts to center more upon his question. "So I had to start thinking of new dreams; ones that at least had a hope of being fulfilled one day."

"Such as?" There was something in his tone that suggested he was not entirely pleased she had sacrificed the old one, but that could not be helped. She was rather glad of it now, because unless there was a theatre near here that she had yet to have seen, her work from now on would not resemble what she'd known.

"A family. A home. Someone who loves me. All those domestic things that people can take for granted when it all seems so very normal." She wouldn't cry. She simply wouldn't. "But I haven't had that in a very long time, and when I think about what I want most... How could the stage ever compare to someone laughing with me over dinner? Or someone being there after I've had a nightmare and I just need someone to hold me?"

She knew now that none of this would be helpful in his quest to find a way to improve her contentment here. He could provide none of this without crossing a great host of ethical boundaries, and she was not entirely certain that she wanted him to be the one to offer them.

Though the longer she spent with him, the more she was convinced that she would also find him to be disagreeable if the situation grew more long term.

"You wish for... a companion."

Christine almost grimaced at that. "You make it sound like I could have gotten a puppy and it would have been the same."

Maybe it would have been. A puppy loved anyone who fed and played with it. It would always be happy to see her when she came home, and would likely be interested in whatever kitchen happenings held her attention.

Maybe that would have been safer, just to tell him she wished to have an animal as a friend.

But she hadn't.

"My apologies. A husband, then. You wished for the constancy of another male relationship that this time would last the entirety of your life."

Christine flushed. "When you put it like that, I sound very selfish. I wanted to take care of him too, you know. I wasn't... I wasn't just going to claim someone and make him take care of me, and forget all about his needs. Is it so wrong to just want someone to be there?"

Erik looked at her in that strange way, his eyes so fervent that she could very nearly feel them staring at her.

"No, it certainly is not."

When he had asked Christine to enlighten him as to what would make her happy, this was not at all what he had expected. It was not that he assumed she was a wholly materialistic girl, one who would accept whatever bauble was given to her and she would be sufficiently entertained for an hour.

Or perhaps he had. Just a little.

But evidently her desires were more difficult to procure, without submitting himself totally and completely into the spell of her charms and beauty.

He was only a man, and yet here she nearly pleaded for companionship. He wanted to throw himself at her feet. To confess everything with the hope that she might be able to look beyond his failings, his hideousness, if only she would love him.

And he be allowed to love her in return.

But he could not. Not when she would want some handsome man to woo her—one that could promise her not only love and undying devotion, but pretty children for her to dote upon.

And he had found not one woman who was willing to allow his touch.

Not that he had made too many enquiries. He had not needed to, not when their eyes widened with such fear. Some did not. Some were drawn to his power, and offered him their sexual favors in return for wealth and comfort.

Perhaps a small part of him had been tempted—to know, to experience, what the rest of humanity indulged in so freely.

But he did not. Not with them. Not with their coldness and their scheming and their hunger for a bit of his power—not yet realizing that he was as much a slave as they were.

He was not now. But Christine was not making him an offer, he told himself. She was merely expressing her hidden desires, and it was now his responsibility to glean what he could make possible for her.

Aside from returning to the theatre and bringing her Raoul de Chagny for a husband, he could not think of a single thing. But the thought of that, of him getting to enjoy her smiles, her gentle touches, filled his blood with rage.

Calm.

He would not frighten her.

There was nothing unnatural about what she wanted. It was only that it was impossible for him to provide it himself that made him angry.

Which left only a sense of helplessness.

And evidently, silent for too long.

"You don't have to do anything, or say anything, Erik. I know you can't help me with any of this. But you asked what would make me happy and I got carried away. Like I said, a library card would be fine, and maybe... maybe we could get a DVD player? Some way I could watch movies? This place doesn't have many channels."

She would settle for diversions instead of true happiness, and while the part of him that had bristled so thoroughly when he thought of her with another man was soothed by her assurance, the greater part merely felt miserable at his failure. He had thought he had done the worst thing by ripping her away from the theatre—her shared workplace with her father. Her music. Her career.

But apparently he had robbed her of a chance to have a family.

He truly was a monster.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

Her hand was on his arm again, and for some inexplicable reason, he very nearly wanted to weep as he stared down at it. Cool and detached. That was what he had promised himself. Not to blubber like a schoolboy at the merest kindness.

But it was so new to him, this gentleness. That she might want to touch him to offer comfort, instead of harsh hands meting out punishment for perceived slights. Or merely for having the audacity to exist at all.

"You are not wrong to want those things, Christine. And… you have no way of knowing how much I wish..."

He could not bring himself to tell her more. Tell her that he was sorry. That he hoped that someday she would be able to have those things with a man she loved.

But instead she only had him.

And he could offer her no more than a home to keep out the steady rains, and a ride to the library for books she would not even allow him to purchase for her.

It was a sorry compromise if ever there was one.

Christine continued to look at him worriedly, and he took a shuddering breath in an effort to regain his composure. "Erik, please, tell me what's wrong? You're scaring me."

That was the last thing he desired.

"Do you think," he began carefully, once more trying to manage the line between truth and fiction. "What if you could pretend that it was real? That you are not merely trapped here with me by an accident of circumstance, but that you chose it? That when I offer to supply for your needs, it is not at the expense of the taxpayer, but from my own funds, simply because I wish to care for you? Is that… is that too much to ask?"

Of course, what he wanted most was for her to be able to imagine that they were a couple. That they were now in their first house, and she would have the joy of decorating it as she wished to make it more than merely a dwelling.

It would be a home.

Erik was unused to such thoughts, such simple pleasures. Life had hardened him, honed his cynicism to a masterfully wielded weapon, one that he used frequently within his own mind. And yet with her… he wished for more.

And it frightened him. More than anything in recent memory.

"Erik," Christine murmured, sighing slightly as she did so. "I would love to do that. Forget reality and just pretend. But how can I? When you'd… _I'd_ be in such trouble."

His head cocked slightly to the right. "Why? What would be so troublesome about it?"

She laughed, a rather incredulous sound that displeased him. "So we play pretend, and you're my husband and we're happy together. And then we get the call from Detective Nadir and suddenly… suddenly I'm back at home and you're off with another witness, and…" she took a deep breath, her eyes flicking to meet his. "I don't think I could handle that. Don't you understand? How… painful that would be?"

And he did. He knew. Because even as he pictured a future, a future without her… it was bleak and horrid thing.

When had he grown so attached to her? It seemed the more distance he tried to keep, the more he thought of her. The less time he spent in her presence, the more drawn he was when they were together.

It was strange, and it was dangerous.

But it was real.

"You are right," he admitted quietly, hating that it was true. He knew full well that such a call would never come. And maybe with more time, she could come to accept things on her own. And months and years dragged on and she settled further into her life— _their_ life—maybe then she would not mind so very much at pretending.

But Erik was never a patient man.

Yet before he could urge her further, to persuade her that perhaps there was a better way for them to live, Christine interjected. "Do you think though that… maybe… maybe if I pretend to pretend… that you'd spend more time with me? At least until I can start to make some friends here of my own?"

Erik wanted to protest, and tell her quite firmly that he would be her companion for much longer than she was suggesting. But as he looked at her, her eyes so hopeful as she stared at him, he found himself nodding instead. "Of course, if that is your wish."

It had obviously been wrong to leave her alone for so long. What was meant as a respite for her and a time to soothe his inflamed skin had instead left her feeling bereft. And he would not have her so. Not ever.

"Can we take a walk?"

Erik's gaze flickered toward the window. "It is raining."

"Oh…" Christine hesitated, before she tried again. "A short walk then."

Erik frowned, not certain whether or not he should agree. He would be responsible if she took ill because he had indulged this whim of hers, but he had evidently injured her by his previous actions, and if she was properly bundled…

"You will need proper footwear. And an umbrella."

Christine visibly brightened and it was with only slight trepidation that Erik readied himself, donning his most suitable shoes and coat, grabbing a sturdy umbrella of his own.

He most certainly could not risk his mask being exposed to very much water. The last thing he needed was for his supposed flesh to begin peeling away, frightening Christine.

When he emerged from his room, Christine was waiting, her smile welcoming and her eyes sparkling. She looked… rather adorable, and he was briefly reminded of how she had looked years ago, with her wide eyes and bouncing curls. Her frame was swallowed up quite thoroughly by her raincoat, bright red rubber boots promising to keep her feet from becoming soaked.

And she was waiting to walk with _him._

And nothing about her demeanor suggested she begrudged him for it.

"Ready?"

Christine nodded, and he noted with some bemusement that her umbrella was smattered with a variety of differently colored polka dots. A garish and impractical article to be sure.

Yet why did he find it endearing when she carried it?

So distracted was he that he did not at first notice when she had opened the door, stooping lowly at the threshold to pick up something from the front step.

It was not until she paled, her eyes not longer wide and happy but terror filled that spurred him into action.

"Christine?!"

Her fingers trembled as she held out a slip of paper, its envelope already fluttering to the ground.

"He found me… how did he find me?"

Erik took hold of the letter, her fear fueling his own as he scanned its brief contents.

 _Enjoy your new house, Christine, while you can. And warmest regards to your companion._

 _Hurry home. There is work to be done._

* * *

Sooo... What's going on? Is Erik planting notes? Someone else? But who...

Thank you to all my faithful reviewers! You always make me smile :)


	12. Chapter 12

I was going to leave this chapter at a much different spot, but that would have made it sooo short and mean so... I didn't. At least one question shall be answered tonight! And many more... not. But gotta start somewhere, right?

Monday will bring a new chapter and the start of a new job, (who in their right mind thinks it's a good idea for ME to teach math to children?! Oh yeah, my old math teacher, that's who. She does remember that I got a B in Calculus, right?)

Anyway, enough about me. Onward!

* * *

xii

Christine stood unmoving, not at all certain what the note meant. What work? She paled, the realization biting and terrible. _His_ work. Detective Nadir had said he was an assassin, which meant… she was the work. He was coming, or at the very least knew where she was. Simply moving her away from the danger wasn't enough and…

If possible, Erik looked as shaken as she felt. He was supposed to be calm, for surely they had procedures for moments such as these, but instead his mouth was pressed into a firm line, his eyes straying from the letter to her, and then back again.

"Christine, go pack your things. We must leave immediately."

She hated the petulant, childish side that wanted to argue. They had plans, just moments ago. Of a walk and getting to know one another and pretending, and now because of _that man_ , she was once more being uprooted.

"But Erik, can't we…"

"Go!" He barked, crumpling the letter in his palm, a harsh and unpleasant sound that startled her greatly. Even in his temper, he seemed to notice that he'd hurt her with his sharpness, for with some effort he softened. "Go, Christine," he said again. "We must hurry. I will not see you harmed."

And for some ridiculous reason, she wanted to ask him to hold her, if only for just a moment, until she could find some measure of her courage.

But instead she went to her bedroom—except, it wasn't really hers any longer, was it?—and exchanged her raincoat for a comfortable sweater, keeping her Wellies though. It would still be a wet trek to the car, and she didn't want her socks damp for the hours to come.

Depression mingled with her fear, and she hated it. Hated the helplessness, her almost reckless desire to simply stay to see what the Phantom would do.

But instead she continued to tuck and fold and pack with trembling fingers, hoping that she was moving fast enough.

Because to wait could mean a confrontation. And it was not only her life that would be risked then, but Erik's as well. And she couldn't ask that of him.

She started when she turned and saw Erik's looming presence in the doorway, not dissimilar to how he would wait between their connecting rooms until she granted entrance.

Except this time his demeanor was grim instead of hesitant, there was no smile playing at his lips when she nodded her permission for him to come closer.

"Do you know how he found me?"

If possible, his expression grew even more grave. "I do not."

Christine nodded again, doing up the final zipper on her suitcase, almost sighing as she did so. She had enjoyed unpacking, of finally slipping the suitcase under the bed, with no intention of handling it again for a good long while. But here she was, and she wouldn't complain. It wasn't Erik's fault that this was necessary.

"Will moving be enough?"

She hoped so, but there was a niggling feeling of doubt that urged her to not place too much hope on the endeavor. If he had found her so quickly at this location, there was little reason to expect he could not prove so capable again in future.

Erik sighed deeply. "I will see you safe," he stated with conviction. "At present I am not certain of anything, but you may rest assured that I will protect you. In all things. Do you believe me?"

She wondered why it mattered. He clearly believed it to be true, and that should be enough. If the worst happened, he would be the one standing with a gun while she hid somewhere. Just picturing the situation made her shiver, and she disliked it greatly. She should be able to help. He'd told her that she could not handle any of his guns, and she wouldn't press him on it, but she would remind him that he'd agreed to help her learn to defend herself properly.

Christine had dismissed it before, when she'd felt safe and secure away from her home. But now... now she wanted to be as prepared as possible. Just in case.

"I believe you," Christine answered, more to appease his expectation than because she felt it in that moment. He was only one man, and their _foe_ as he'd called him, would have surprise on his side. He would have time to plan before he acted, while they fled and hid and tried to simply remain anonymous.

So much for Detective Nadir's assurance that her testimony would lead to his hasty arrest.

Erik took her suitcase and headed for the front door, and for a brief moment Christine allowed complete melancholy to overwhelm her as she took in the now empty house. It looked untouched, unlived it. All the memories that might have been made there suddenly wiped away.

So much for pretending.

After a final use of the facilities, Christine followed Erik out to the car, surprised to see him giving their vehicle a thorough inspection. The rain was coming down steadily, and Christine was glad to have kept her umbrella out, lest she become drenched along the way. Erik was not so mindful, as he suddenly knelt—careful to keep his knees out of a puddle, she was glad to note—and removed... something.

It was a small object, but she could tell no more than that, and she approached hurriedly so she might see more of what it was.

Only for Erik's hand to clamp over it, before he practically _growled_ and threw it toward the bushes.

"What are you doing? What was that?"

" _That_ ," Erik spat out. "Was a tracking device. Every stop, every hotel was just another opportunity for action. We are fortunate to still be breathing."

He sounded so angry, and she had to remind herself that his ire was not directed at her. She realized then that their little tiffs were simple annoyances to him, as she had never witnessed the way his eyes nearly glowed with his rage, the way his hands were drawn into tight fists. She stepped a little nearer and raised her umbrella, trying to keep him covered by the rain. He suddenly lurched away from her, turning on his heal before calling out over his shoulder.

"Get in the car, lock the doors. I will be there shortly."

Christine stared after him before scrambling to obey, suddenly feeling nervous and exposed. Was he still out there? Waiting? And Erik was now inside the house, and the Phantom could act before he returned. Instead of her rather wet and bedraggled self, it would be his corpse waiting to meet him.

She pressed the locks down forcefully, grateful that they were automatic lest she have to climb into the back and proceed to push down each one. She looked for any evidence that there was another presence in the car, but aside from her lone suitcase, there was nothing. Erik's must still be in the house.

She felt alone and vulnerable, and before she could chastise herself for any ridiculousness, she was crouching down on the floor of the passenger seat, already imagining a stray—or perhaps not so stray—bullet shattering the car window and striking her.

Christine very nearly started crying there on the floor. She hadn't thought, not _really_ thought that he would find her.

But he had.

He had tracked them all the way from home. She'd never actually been safe, no matter what she had felt with Erik during their time together.

It was a sobering thought. Were her instincts so utterly wrong?

Erik cursed his rash behavior that had led to him going out in the rain without adequate covering. His mask was peeling slightly in places, and it was a testament to Christine's fear that she had not noticed. He longed to simply divest himself of it in its entirety and pull out one of his supple leather creations, but quickly dismissed the thought. Christine was more important than his comfort.

His skin protested his hurried reapplication, but he had no time to waste on coddling it. He was already angry. At his mangled flesh that made this necessary, at himself for not being able to immediately flee with Christine. And with whoever dared frighten her in this way.

He could admit to himself that he had considered dropping hints that the Phantom was not within custody, but things had been progressing nicely enough with Christine that such parlor tricks seemed unnecessary. He did not want her tears, nor her terror, and to have tormented her in such a way would be cruel.

Would the Daroga tease him in such a way? Leaving taunts before closing in for an arrest? Erik doubted it. Despite his many faults, he was not cruel.

Shadows from Erik's past flickered and whispered, but he refused to heed them.

It simply was not possible.

He had been free for years now—Nadir had seen to that. He had lived a quiet life at the theatre. A lonely life, but one of his own making. No one knew of his home, of his whereabouts; he had been so careful to keep himself hidden. He no longer played the assassin, he was a figment of the theatre's lore. He knew the managers would have paid well to see him removed—a temporary investment that would have proved far less painful to their coffers than his monthly fee. But the rest of the staff seemed to enjoy the game, the prickle at the back of their necks when he was near. They had even managed to bring in more funds with late night tours, showing wide eyed enthusiasts locations of some of his misdeeds. It was mildly insulting at first, with their sound effects and tales of their own bravery, but even Erik could admit to having a bit of sporting fun when he would startle even the guides with a well placed bit of ventriloquism or a simply rigged _accident_.

No one was hurt, he was careful of that, but every member of both staff and public left with a healthier respect for their resident Ghost.

Except now, when he was no longer safely tucked away within the bowels of the opera house, someone dared to threaten him and his charge.

And he wanted to rage at his impotence, for he did not even know where to begin.

They had to leave this place, of that he was certain. He felt a moment's loss that he would not get to accompany Christine on their walk, her bedecked in all her finery against the rain, and he promised himself that when they were safe—when he could be certain that they were truly alone, he would take her on such a venture.

This would not be the end for them. He would make certain.

His mask adequately applied, he zipped up his suitcase and wheeled it to the car, his breath stopping short as he realized he did not see Christine waiting within the confines of the vehicle. He rushed forward, releasing the handle of his suitcase as he did so, only to see her huddled on the passenger seat floor.

He frowned. "Christine? Are you injured?"

She glanced up, her eyes large and frightened at his seemingly unexpected approach, and she sheepishly shook her head before sliding to sit on the seat properly. "I'm all right," she assured him, though he noticed her slight wince as she bent her legs. Foolish girl. Did she not realize that she could incur injury to her knees from maintaining such a position for a prolonged period?

He debated on whether or not he should offer her one of his pain medications, but decided against it. They were mild, but she had slept soundly afterward, and though he assured himself that the man stupid enough to taunt him would never come close enough to make it necessary, he thought it best that she be lucid enough to flee of her own accord if needed.

Erik returned to his suitcase and placed it in the back with hers.

He should contact their landlord, he supposed. A normal person would. Long conversations about a lease temporarily ended did not appeal to him, nor haggling over the heavy charges that would undoubtedly be incurred. So instead he returned to the front door, locked it, and placed the key under the mat before returning to Christine. He would call the man in the morning and that would be it. There would be no discussion on anything else. If he attempted to pursue the matter further, especially with the law, he would discover that the Erik Durant that had secured the property did not exist. He might contact the authorities, but Erik and Christine would be far from this place by that time, possibly even across state lines, and he doubted the federal government would be interested in the case.

For a brief moment, he almost wished that the law could be on his side—that he could hand the note to a detective and demand they find the one who had placed it there.

But that would also limit his options when he uncovered who had done it at all. And Erik liked having options.

Christine was uncharacteristically quiet as they drove through the neighborhoods, and Erik began to feel nervous. She would be unhappy about their move, of course she would, and he did not blame her for it. He had expected them to live there for at least a few months, if not longer, and he knew she tired of living on the road.

"I am sorry, Christine," he told her truthfully. "You did not deserve this." Equally true. She had been an innocent, simply a loving daughter who wanted a cherished keepsake returned, and he in turn had murdered a man in front of her. And subsequently ruined her life.

Guilt ate at him, and for the first time he could not easily justify it away.

Not when someone was actively searching for her that was not a certain detective.

Christine gave him a grim smile, and he wished she had not even made the attempt. Those should be joyful things, stemming from a genuine feeling—not an offering based on her attempt to appease him. The freeway entrances loomed before him, and he selected one, not for any particular reason, merging into the traffic beyond.

He glanced at Christine once more and found that she was smoothing her thumb over the band he had given her, her expression almost sad. "Christine?"

She released a little sigh, and pulled it off. "I suppose I should give this back to you. I guess we won't be playing house after all."

There was something truly morose about her tone, as if she had enjoyed the short-lived fantasy, and for a moment he relished that knowledge—only to then recognize yet again that he was the cause of her sadness.

"We will start again, Christine. Somewhere with much water, as you requested. And this time you may stay there as long as you desire, and purchase many things to make yourself comfortable there." He wanted to make her feel better, but instead she merely looked out the window, her mouth pressed into an unhappy line.

Erik did not know what else to say, so he remained silent, though after a time he noted she had slipped the ring back onto her finger. Where it belonged.

They drove for some hours, Christine never making any requests to stop, but Erik doing so anyway. He hated her silence, the way she avoided looking at him, and he could only assume that she was furious with him. He should have protected her better. He should have assumed that he had made enemies that would be interested in his whereabouts—except what confused him most was that typically anyone that had cause to dislike him so intensely did not live beyond the temporary emotion.

He offered her money to purchase food, but unlike her usual cheerful acceptance, she merely shook her head and remained in the car, and Erik's worry for her grew.

When finally he could no longer stand the silence in the car, he deemed them far enough away to warrant stopping for the night. But unlike their previous travels, she did not simply wait for him to make arrangements with the hotel, instead keeping nearly to his elbow as she followed him inside.

Erik thought it very odd, especially given her apparent anger with him, but did not comment.

The rooms were of the same configuration as before, and Erik took up their bags while casting Christine surreptitious glances every so often. She needed to eat, of that he was certain, and perhaps then she would feel a little better. She was grumpy in the morning if he did not provide her with some measure of nutrition, though how a strong cup of tea qualified he still was not certain. He settled the bags in their respective rooms, opening the adjoining door before addressing her. "Shall I order you something?"

Christine hesitated before slowly shaking her head. "I think... I think I'm just going to go to bed."

Erik's eyes narrowed, assessing her. Her posture was a little strange, almost hunched as she stood rather awkwardly in the middle of the room, and her arms were held about her middle. A defensive posture.

"Are you certain? You must take care of yourself, Christine, or at least allow me to do so."

But instead of acquiescing, she merely nodded, standing a bit taller. "I'm sure. I'm just going to change and go to bed. I have a headache and could use some extra sleep. Besides," she continued, her mouth curving into a hint of a smile, though her eyes remained distant, "No doubt we'll be leaving bright and early in the morning."

Perhaps he should be grateful for her attempt at teasing, but he only grew more worried for her. "Would you care for some medication to alleviate your headache? If you were in pain, you should have told me sooner and I would have provided something."

She shook her head, inching toward her suitcase. "No, really, I'm fine. I just need some sleep. But thank you, Erik."

There was a dismissive quality to her tone, and although he wished to linger, to prod and determine precisely what troubled her and in what way he would make it right, he was not some brute that would trespass in her doorway when he was no longer wanted.

That did not keep it from stinging slightly at her rejection.

He would have shut the door between them entirely, but now there was more of a threat in the world than the likes of Detective Nadir, so with some reluctance he once more fashioned the ice bucket into a doorstop, for the first time regretting that he could not close it entirely.

Christine might need to nurse her headache, but Erik needed to keep from shattering completely. They had such promise between them, in their little house together, and while he could supply her another one, Christine did not seem amiable to any warmth between them any longer.

And he had not expected to feel so devastated at the realization.

* * *

Sooo... not Erik then who left the note! But things don't seem right as rain between them either... Who's worried about that?


	13. Chapter 13

Haalllooooo! Thank you to _Addmein_ for checking up on me. My job started yesterday after a horrid night's sleep, and it proved a very... frustrating and overwhelming day to say the least. So posting completely slipped my mind! As always, feel free to harass if I seem like I'm forgetting that day (or even if you just want it early). I can't seem to quite get in the groove of posting this time around.

But anyway! A lot of you are confused, and that's okay (well, no, it's not), but answers are coming-promise! But all in good time, so please, hang in there!

And now, without further ado... some pretty big happenings!

Onward!

* * *

It was dark; a thick, cloying blackness that pressed and clung to her lungs as she took each difficult breath. She was wandering through a maze, her hands reaching out before her as she stumbled through it, her only hope a small shaft of light in the distance. Her fingertips reached toward the sides and she gasped at the wet, sticky feeling, yanking her hand away once more.

She was also so completely alone.

"Papa?" she called, trying not to panic, even as she tripped, barely managing to catch herself against the fall that seemed even longer than was usual. The ground must be very far away. "Papa, please, I'm lost!"

She managed to get back to her feet, this time running toward the light and accepting that she would likely trip many more times before she reached it. Sickening sounds began behind her, choked groans that echoed in her ears, growing ever nearer. "Erik! Please, I need help!"

And suddenly, she was there.

While it had seemed almost bright compared to the utter obscurity of the maze, the room was rather shadowy now that she was close to it. An eerie sense of familiarity settled over her, and she knew with absolute certainty that she had to leave. It wasn't safe here, not now, not ever.

She turned, ready to bolt, but a figure appeared, a mask, black and menacing covering unknowable features as Death's hand clasped about her wrist. "Leaving so soon? There is work to be done."

She screamed, lurching backwards, shoving and clawing at the hand as she tried to free herself, only for the grip to tighten and for him to laugh at the impossibility of her escape…

"Christine!"

Christine couldn't seem to stop screaming, not at first, not until awareness slowly settled over her as she realized she was tangled in crisp white bedding, Erik leaning over her with concern in his eyes. He must have turned on the bedside lamp, for she could see plainly that he was holding her wrists firmly—an indecent position in any other circumstance. But as he recognized that she was no longer in the throes of her nightmare, he released her, his eyes straying to the open door connecting their bedrooms as he made to stand. "I shall leave you now; forgive my intrusion. You were crying out and I... I feared the worst."

She was so very tired of crying, but the dream was still echoing in her mind, and she decided she was even more distraught at the notion of once again weeping without the comfort of someone there to be with her. "Will you stay?" she choked out, her hand suddenly grasping at his shirtsleeves, urging him to sit back down on the bed. "Please? Just for a little while."

Papa had always done his best when she'd had bouts of upsets, his hugs tight and his pats soothing, but as she'd grown older she saw the hints of discomfort when she'd cried on his shoulder. That distress had turned to an aching sadness when her tears had stemmed from her mother's passing, his own falling freely as they'd held one another as they'd tried to accept she was gone.

Erik merely looked frightened. "Are you certain? I did not ask permission upon entering your room..."

His tone suggested he was goading her, trying to make her angry for his discourtesy rather than dissolve into a frail heap of overwrought nerves, but she could not indulge him. Not in this. "Please? It was so terrible..."

Erik sat tentatively, and though perhaps she should have asked first, she lay back against the pillows, holding his hand tightly in both of hers; an anchor in the midst of all the horror, all the terror she had known during the short time of their acquaintance. Had she changed since her days as a chorus girl? She supposed they weren't so very far away, yet she felt a lifetime had passed. She'd seen too much, too soon, and now...

She didn't want to think about now.

He was looking at her oddly, almost as if he was deciding something. Yet with her heart still beating too quickly, her breath still a little too short, she could not decipher Erik's thoughts.

"What was so very terrible, Christine?" His tone changed, this time almost melodious as he stared down at their connected hands, and she took what comfort he seemed to offer. His voice was rather lovely under normal circumstances, but now she realized he had a gift for persuasion if he continued to speak to her so softly, so coaxingly.

"He'd found me. And you and Papa weren't there to help me, no matter how I begged."

She watched his eyes, his strangely colorless eyes, wondering if he'd be mad if she asked about them. Could he see well enough with them? He seemed to, but she'd never seen anything like them before. "You should not have to beg for assistance, Christine. It is freely offered."

She smiled grimly, using her shoulder to brush away some of the wetness on her cheeks. "But it isn't free. You aren't here because you want to be, it's because it's your job. It's not that you... that you care about me, or what happens, it's that you'd probably get in trouble with your boss if anything happened."

Never had she seen Erik recoil from her, but this time he did so.

She tried to keep hold of his hand, but he lurched away from her, those eyes, filled with compassion only a moment ago, now filled with disbelief. "That is your opinion of me? That I hold you in such disregard? That I could be presented with any amount of money that would persuade me to vacate my home, abandon my music, to shadow a girl who simply had the misfortune of trespassing where she was not welcome?"

Christine nearly flinched, too shaken to find a proper retort—to explain further. Disbelief had given way to anger, and she only felt all the more confused.

"I didn't mean to insult you," she assured him quietly, not all prepared for this turn in the conversation. She should have kept silent on this particular matter, even though it was beginning to trouble her greatly. She was... fond of Erik. Was certain she would grow fonder still if he had been willing to spend more time with her in their little house. But perhaps that was the problem. For while she was growing to appreciate him and his company, the idea that he was not there of his own volition—that any marshal could have come for her if they'd been handed her case file—was an affront to her feelings.

"That is not the same as a redaction of the sentiment entirely." His eyes were narrowed, and she wished he would come back to sit with her, but she did not know how to ask. Not when he was clearly so upset with her.

"You could refute it," Christine reminded him, not wanting to lie and pretend that she did not worry about such things. Yet if she apologized, told him she did not mean it, maybe he would come back and he wouldn't be angry and she could hold his hand...

She groaned, fisting the bedding tightly and wishing that things could be different.

Erik was silent for a long while, and though her eyes were closed, she could feel his gaze upon her. Finally, he sighed. "What would you have of me, Christine? You complain of my distance when I offer you privacy and professionalism, yet I am certain my... affection would equally be unappreciated. So what would you have me do? Ask it and it is yours." She could not be sure that he had spoken that last part aloud, as it did not seem to come from him—more a caress against her ear than a spoken word from his place suddenly so far away, but it startled her enough to open her eyes and look at him.

What _did_ she want from him?

She was being woefully unfair to him, always finding a reason to complain. And what made it worse, was that in that moment, she could not say for certain what it was she did want. It was easier to list what she did not. She did not want to be alone anymore. She did not want for him to be angry with her.

But what did that entail for their future?

She seemed to have insulted him by reminding him of his employment, but that had not been her intention. His commitment to his duty was admirable, but that did not translate to particular care for her person.

And she wasn't entirely sure why it mattered, yet it did.

Erik huffed out any angry breath and took a step backward, crossing his arms as he did so. "You were sullen and silent most of today. Why?"

Christine peered up at him. She could not deny her silence, for she supposed she had been unusually quiet, but her thoughts had been dark and dangerous things. And sullen? Perhaps. But she had felt more frightened than anything. But his assessment only proved that Erik was quick to make assumptions, though maybe she was equally at fault in that regard.

"I'm sorry," Christine answered at last. "I didn't mean for it to bother you," _if_ it bothered him. He never was one for a tremendous amount of conversation, and she usually felt a little bit guilty for prattling. But if the reverse had him distressed, then perhaps he found some measure of enjoyment in her chatter. It was a nice thought.

Erik looked down sharply at the floor, his hands suddenly clutched into fists. "I did not say that it was a bother; it was an observation of your behavior. One that you could now take the time to explain."

Christine plucked absently at the duvet, moving to sit up slightly so she could look at him better. What was there to explain? Today had begun well enough—they were finally getting somewhere in terms of finding an accord between them, only for the danger surrounding her to make a painful and unwelcome appearance. This time almost naming him specifically. "Do you know..." she began, though she had to clear her throat in attempt to find her voice. Her throat still felt tight and a little itchy, and she would have liked a glass of water to soothe it before continuing their conversation, but was not about to ask Erik to fetch one. And during her nightmare she had kicked away her fuzzy socks, and it was best she not give him another view of her legs. It would only mean more embarrassment for her.

"What do I know?" He prompted again, his tone ever so slightly impatient.

She took a deep breath, and continued, realizing that it was best to simply speak of all of it and he could decide what was most important. It had worked that morning before... well, before the Phantom had happened. "Do you know how guilty I would feel if something happened to you because of me? That maybe he'd come and find me, and you being noble and brave would protect me, and I'd be left there... you'd be dead and I..." She raised a hand to her mouth, the words coming unthinkingly from her lips before she registered how selfish she had sounded. "I'm sorry," she repeated, this time more sincerely. "That was horrible of me."

Erik's head cocked slightly to the side. "Why? To admit that you would be... displeased by my injury?"

"No!" She quickly assured him, gladdened that he had taken it in such a way, but still feeling it necessary to clarify. "I was going to say that I would be all alone and not know what to do. I don't have Detective Nadir's number, I don't have much money left that wouldn't be traced as soon as I'd gotten it. But that's dreadful! You'd be _dead_ and I'm worried about how I'd live!"

Erik straightened somewhat at that. "Christine," he placated, his tone softening. "Of course you would be concerned for your own wellbeing. That is only natural. While I... would be most... gratified to know that you would be saddened by my demise..." His voice trailed off, his expression questioning.

She was quick to give a nod of confirmation. "But that's just it," she blurted out, not meaning to cut him off, but needing to say it aloud. "I... care about you. And I thought we'd just be living somewhere hidden, but _safe_ , and you were being kind and staying with me, but you wouldn't really be in any danger. But now, if something happens, you're going to be hurt because of me! Because this is your job and you do it very well!"

Christine couldn't be certain, but she almost thought his lips quirked slightly upward at that. She frowned. This was serious.

"You care about me? That I should live? You would prefer I stay with you than die?"

She blinked at him, her brow furrowing. What a stupid question—why would he even feel the need to ask it? "That's ridiculous. Of course I'd rather you be with me."

He looked slightly away from her. "You did not ask for me to stay and dine with you tonight." She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard some measure of hurt in his voice, and she was torn between dismay and a flush of pleasure that her simple entreaties meant so much to him.

"I don't want to lose someone I care about again," she nearly whispered, the truth a painful one. "That's why I... I didn't get very close to anyone at home. They would offer and I was... polite, but I didn't really appreciate their efforts. Not when I kept thinking how in just a moment they could be gone. And I'd be left all alone again." She huffed out an angry breath, frustrated with herself. "And there I sound selfish again."

"No," Erik corrected. "You sound like someone who wishes to protect oneself. I see little shame in that." He might not, but she did. "However," he continued, his tone pointed. "I would prefer that you attempt to keep yourself from withdrawing so completely in the future. I find it to be an... unpleasant experience."

She smiled at that. "Okay," she promised, though her smile faded quickly. "But Erik… if I can ask it of you…"

He gave a slight nod of his head. "You may ask anything of me, and if it is in my power I shall see that it is done."

A heavy assurance, to be sure. She hoped he meant it. "I need to know…" her lips thinned and she tried again. "If you wouldn't mind telling me…"

Erik gave her an indulgent look. "Simply ask me, Christine."

She looked up at him then, his eyes soft and almost… affectionate. And the words came. "I need to know if you care about me because it's your job, or because you care for… me. Because you want to. Please, it's important."

She expected him to struggle, to huff and dissuade her from asking any such thing, but instead Erik was calm and sure as he looked at her. "I may state with absolute certainty that the only reason that I accepted this position was because I would see no harm come to you. That I considered what might be done, and I wanted you to be safe and undisturbed. That you were lonely and afraid, and I thought that perhaps, if you were as lovely a girl as you seemed, I may be able to alleviate both." He leaned in closer, his eyes so very sincere. "Because I care for you."

Her breath hitched at his confession, and before she realized she had done so, she had freed herself from the tangle of her sheets, and gone to him. His body was stiff and unresponsive as she wrapped her arms about his middle, pressing her face to his chest. Now that she was so close to him, she could not help but recognize yet again how tall he truly was. If not for his slim frame, he would most assuredly have dwarfed her completely. Instead she felt... safer. More secure. Even if it all was just an illusion.

"Thank you, Erik." she murmured softly. "For being honest with me." His hands were belated in resting upon her back, and had her ear not been pressed just so, she would have missed the way his body shuddered, his voice rather choked when next he spoke.

"You are touching me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

His hold on her, though tentative and almost apologetic, did not waver, so she did not allow her sudden worry at her welcome to gain much traction. "Because I wanted to. Because I care for you too and because when you're near I do feel less afraid. Less lonely. Do you mind very much?"

Erik was quiet for a moment, and she shifted slightly, only to stare up at his chin for he was holding his head carefully away from her. "No," he assured her, his voice a roughened rasp. "Though it is most unexpected."

A hug in general or just from a client?

Maybe it didn't matter so much, other than the first made her ache for him in sympathy. It had been a long while for her as well.

Although for some inexplicable reason, it was almost a comfort to know that perhaps she was different from his usual charges—that despite the close quarters of their living situations, he did not make it a habit of growing physically close with any other women he might have protected.

"How long do these hugs typically last?"

So soft was the action she was almost uncertain it occurred at all, but she thought that his thumb was suddenly moving, making small comforting circles across her shoulder blade. Christine sighed. "Until one of us pulls away." She peered up at him again, frowning slightly at a smudge under his chin. If she wasn't so sure it would displease him, she would reach up and clean it away for him. "When was the last hug you had?"

Erik swallowed thickly. "I cannot recall."

That was sad. Even if it was quite some time ago, Christine remembered it well. "Mine was Meg last Christmas. She'd learned to knit and made me a pair of socks. I don't think she did it quite right because they were a bit lumpy, and one had a foot bigger than the other, but I loved them."

"Would those be the fuzzy monstrosities?"

Christine followed his gaze towards the floor, unsure whether to be indignant on their behalf or embarrassed that she evidently liked to strew garments about the room. She was not typically a messy person, but other than their all too brief time in their little house, Erik would not have cause to know that. "Yes," she confirmed. "Though I've purchased a few pairs since." Heat grew in her cheeks as she defended her choices. "I like them."

Erik made no further comment.

He had made it a personal conviction to keep from plying Christine with outright falsehoods. But on this occasion, he had done so.

He knew perfectly well that his last embrace was beyond his recollection for there had _been_ no such comforts in his life. Hands that tightened about him were for restraint, not affection, and it was only in the recesses of his own mind that he had wondered what other men shared with those close to them.

And Christine had now enlightened him.

It was odd at first. Just a press of another body against his own, warm and soft as he was not.

But as the surprise had waned, he could recognize the appeal to it, the way she fit just so, the way she must have trusted him enough to initiate it at all.

And a warmth spread through him, unfamiliar yet wonderful, and he wondered if it would be possible for him to never let her go.

That impulse alone kept him from clutching her to him, instead contented himself with small touches, hoping to prolong their inevitable parting.

She had demanded he confess his care for her, but as he held her, he knew it was too inadequate a word. He held her in high regard. He cherished her every smile, the pleasure of her company.

He loved her.

In whatever mad, thoroughly likely demented way that his soul could possibly love, he loved her.

And it frightened him.

For she may not return his sentiments—the probability of her doing so seemed impossibly low—but now there was also someone intent on seeing her harm. Not her own imaginings that _he_ would seek to do so, but an actual someone. And Erik could not allow that to happen.

He had thought that fleeing was sufficient. He used credit cards only when necessary and under false identities. Yet still they had been discovered.

And he still had no notion as to who might be hunting them, only a feeling of dread and unease that settled low in his belly.

He had to make her safe, no matter the personal cost.

Because he loved her.

With great reluctance, he released her, feeling the loss most acutely when her arms fell away, and he watched her clamor back beneath the covers with pink cheeks and a sheepish smile. He had not been oblivious to her state of dress, but he hoped that perhaps someday she would not find his gaze upon her to be a humiliating experience.

He knew what it was like to be looked at with derision and horror. It was something he would not wish upon anyone, and especially not her.

Yet he doubted that from the most critical of perusals, she had no cause for concern. He saw her with nothing less than pure admiration.

He would rather converse with her more—coax her into speaking of her nightmares so that perhaps her sleep would be uninhibited by more, but instead he forced himself to reach into his pocket, pulling out a phone and searching through the contacts, his reluctance ever growing.

"Erik? Who are you calling?"

He almost hung up the moment it began to ring, but he refused to do so.

She had to be safe.

The man on the other end answered, his voice thick with sleep. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Detective Nadir. It seems I require your assistance."

* * *

Sooo... does Christine's withdrawal make sense now? She has a lot on her mind, and apparently her subconscious is taking it out on her. But if it leads to huuuuugsss... worth it, right?

And why in the world is he involving the Persian? Any ideas? He wouldn't... *gulp* turn himself in, would he?


	14. Chapter 14

I know, it's a shorter segment today, but look! It's on time! And maybe if I get an exceptional amount of reviews, you'll get a special weekend portion...

But anyway! Let's go see what Erik's up to with the Daroga, shaaaalll we?

Onward!

xiv

The Daroga was silent on his end of the line, and Erik took it as an opportunity to make this conversation as succinct as possible. He had drifted into his side of the room and shut the door, concerned what Christine might overhear if he remained with her. He would return when he was finished, and perhaps would offer to sing her something to help her fall asleep. Or if she preferred pharmaceutical assistance, he had such available as well.

"I found a tracking device on my car; is that not interesting? It has been removed of course, but I cannot help but wonder if you placed it there."

"Erik?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "Come, Daroga, it has not been _that_ long since we have spoken. Or has it? I do tend to lose track of time."

"Where is she, Erik? What have you done with her? You left Joseph Buquet on quite the display and I keep expecting Miss Daaé to appear in the same manner."

Erik's lips thinned, remembering why he hated talking with the man. "You presume much, Daroga, and it is not appreciated. Perhaps if you would allow me to state the reason for my call, we could avoid such insults to my character."

The man was quiet for a moment longer, and Erik was well aware of how limited time truly was. It was a secure line, the phone a disposable one that could not lead back to him, but it was better to be cautious. "Christine received a threatening note, and there were some... indications that perhaps it was directed at me as well."

The Daroga snorted. "There's a simple solution then. Bring her home, no matter her current condition, and surrender yourself into custody. No one could harm either of you then."

"That is not an option, of which you are well aware. Do not insult yourself by offering such mundane solutions. I am calling for genuine assistance." Except, he was now regretting even doing that.

Nadir sighed. "What do you want from me, Erik?"

"I want to know if you have heard rumors of the Shah." He swallowed. "Of any lingering... interest."

The Daroga inhaled sharply. "We would both be dead already if I had."

"Perhaps the years have made him cruel. Perhaps he likes to taunt his victims first. After all, he did lose his most valued assassin. You saw to that."

"Erik... come back. We can... we'll work something out. But I need you to tell me, have you harmed the girl?"

Erik huffed. The idiotic man had never understood him. He had tried, of that Erik could begrudgingly allow, but the Daroga saw pieces of Erik and assembled them all wrong, missing his true essence. He had seen enough to prompt him into helping free him from the Shah's service, but not enough to consider him a good man. To stop and think that perhaps he would not find killing Christine outright a palatable solution.

But perhaps Erik had never truly given him a reason to presume otherwise.

Yet he was not about to start now.

"The girl is not your concern."

"I don't know if I can help you if you've harmed her, Erik."

Erik raised an incredulous eyebrow, knowing full well the man was not there to see it. "Because your conscience would not allow it? Or because the bounds of your _laws_ could find no recourse but to demand my imprisonment? I would remind you that at one time you had no such scruples. You were under the Shah's employ of your own accord."

"You can mock my conscience all you like, but that was the only reason I helped you escape at all. Even if you were a killer, a murderer, the way they treated you... no one should have to endure that." He took a deep breath, his vehemence dying somewhat as he entreated Erik once more. "Just... is she safe?"

Erik silently pondered the harm in assuring him of Christine's continued wellbeing. Doubtlessly the case was still open, likely her file vacillating between the Daroga's desk at the station and the one at home. He had a softness of the less fortunate, the weaker members of society, and if, as he rightly presumed, Erik had taken her...

His concern was likely justified.

"She is perfectly well. She was greatly disturbed by receiving that letter, but overall she has been in good spirits."

"She must not know who you are, then."

Erik should not be so insulted, yet the Daroga stated that with such confidence, his temper rankled. "Because I am incapable of being kind? Because no woman could stand to be near me? Is that it?"

Nadir sighed. "Because if she did, she would not have gone with you willingly. She was terrified the night I interviewed her, and that does not simply go away. Especially not if you kidnapped her."

Erik leaned against the wall of his room. He did not like to think of it that way. "I will not discuss her any longer. Her safety must be assured, and that means that I must suffer by placing this call." He did not like to ask for favors. He preferred to bribe or threatened when it suited him, but he knew well that the Daroga would not respond well to either. "Will you pay special attention to any possibility that the Shah has returned? He would be... most angry, and would not be as hospitable with Christine as I have been should he ever locate her."

The Daroga released a dark chuckle. "He would find her company most agreeable."

Erik's lips thinned, not wanting to think about what he had witnessed. Some things were too terrible to stomach, even for him.

"It would benefit you, as well. There was no mistaking your involvement in my removal. If he has managed to track me, which even you have proved incapable, you would be a much easier target."

Erik heard a faint tapping, and he could easily picture Nadir fidgeting as he considered. "I can make no promises as to results. I still think if he was involved, he would have acted much sooner. Although... I will see what I can uncover. See if any crimes lately follow his patterns. But Erik," he continued, his tone firm. "If it's not him, she is in danger. I'm sure you've made many enemies over the years, and she isn't safe with you. She would be if she was _home_."

Erik very nearly rolled his eyes again, even as guilt clutched at his belly. "How safe was she when a certain man walked past your officer and into her apartment, persuading her to leave with him? Forgive me if I do not give much credence to your methods."

"We have been worried about her, you know. My department. They all were so sure you murdered her and any day now we would discover her body. Grady especially."

Erik frowned. Apparently he was not the only one who found it difficult to keep some measure of distance from Christine. However, _Grady_ was in actuality bound by a professional code. Erik was free from such nuisances.

"I'm telling you this because I won't take kindly to her being hurt just because you're stubborn. I don't know why she was different, why you didn't just kill her outright but I am... glad to hear that you did not. Keep it that way. If you won't bring her home, then I'm holding you personally responsible for her safety."

"How charming," Erik replied drolly. "You seek to lecture me on responsibility. I can assure you, no such speech is necessary, nor appreciated. Just see what you can uncover about the Shah. Last I'd heard he was in Europe."

The Daroga sighed. "As had I. This could be one of his more loyal lackeys, I suppose."

Erik made to hang up, feeling no need for pleasantries, but Nadir must have sensed their conversation was coming to a close, for he interjected once more. "Erik! I want you to understand one more thing. If I investigate this, try to find him, I'm doing it for the sake of that girl in your possession. I don't want her hurt because of you."

And Erik did?

"Investigate for her if you wish," he answered dismissively, tamping down his rising temper. "But remember that if he is attempting to repay past grudges, you are in danger as well. After all, you did free his most useful commodity. You must have some sense of self-preservation hidden beneath all of the self-righteousness."

And with that, he disconnected the call.

None could upset him like the Daroga. Erik wanted to believe it was because he was a grating individual in general—quick to point out flaws without a great deal of compassion for the circumstances that drove Erik to such measures to begin with. But in truth, Erik feared it stemmed from the niggling reminder that he was in debt to the man. If not for him, he likely would still be killing at the Shah's whims, designing magnificent structures of torture with no control over who was released into their horrifying confines.

A timid knock distracted him, and he startled somewhat when Christine opened the door. She had never made any attempt to cross into his room, and he realized now he would have to take to locking the door while his mask was removed.

"Are you finished talking?" She eyed the phone still clutched in his hand, and he tossed it onto the bed with a scowl. Christine hesitated, not entering but not moving back toward her own room either. "Problems?"

He sighed, wishing he did not have to dwell on the conversation any longer. "I have... worked with the Daroga before. I find it an unpleasant experience."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Daroga? I thought his last name was Nadir?"

Erik waved his hand dismissively. "That is merely how I refer to him."

"Oh." Christine smiled in sympathy. "I had a few co-workers like that before. We can't always like everyone."

Erik couldn't imagine anyone not liking Christine, and if she was able to like _him_ as she claimed, he rather doubted her own ability to disapprove of someone. But, he chose not to argue, even as he felt disgruntled and frustrated from the call.

"What did he say?" she prompted, nodding toward the discarded phone.

In that at least, Erik could be truthful. "He will investigate. You are not to worry."

Christine shook her head. "I don't think I can do anything _but_ worry. Do they think they'll need the FBI? I didn't think a detective could investigate outside their jurisdiction."

Erik hesitated. If the Shah was involved, the Daroga was correct in assuming that one of his minions was following them, not the man himself. What Erik did not know was if they were ordered to taunt and then kill, or if Erik would be dragged back for a more personal audience.

That would not be allowed. Not under any circumstances. He would rather perish than be kept in such a manner again.

He sighed, suddenly feeling weary of it all. Of trying to keep Christine from uncovering too many painful truths, of the Daroga and his constant disapproval. Of the guilt weighing upon his soul for all that he had done.

"I am tired, Christine," he murmured, not really intending for her to hear.

But she frowned, glancing toward the floor before looking at him once more. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Erik smiled, a thin, wan thing, and offered a single nod. She looked about the room briefly as she crossed over to him, though there was not much to see that her own room did not already boast. His suitcase was neater than hers, as he kept his carefully zipped lest she should spy anything he would rather she not see. But the décor was the same, a large bed dominating the space. He wondered if he should have at least turned down the duvet to feign sleep that he knew would not come.

Yet it was too late now, for she was already in his room. She came closer than he expected, her hand resting upon his arm. He had gone into her room so hurriedly when she had woken that he wore only his trousers and shirt, and in that moment he felt practically naked. He wanted to shy away, to keep her from looking too closely at any skin that the crisp white garment did not cover, but he could not bring himself to do so. Not if Christine wished to touch him.

"You should rest, Erik. We both should. You took the tracking device off the car so he won't know where we are, and I've been good and haven't withdrawn any money that he could trace to one of my bank branches. We'll be okay."

It seemed ridiculous that she felt the need to assure him of such things, when he was quite certain it should be the other way around. She was the one who woke in a terror, believing that a masked figure was about to murder her. It bothered him more than it should that she could dream such of him. Her subconscious had not meant it personally—he had given her no cause to believe that the Phantom was standing before her, and he was just as incapable of hurting her as the Erik she had come to know. To care for.

He had waited too long to respond, her need to comfort him seemingly not appeased by his continued silence, and belatedly he saw her hand rise, her fingertips landing softly against his cheek.

And too late he pulled away from her.

And he could only watch with horror as her brow furrowed with confusion at its texture.

* * *

Sooo... major uh oh! Remember, Erik's been wearing his "normal" mask since they met, and Christine has most certainly never touched it before! Methinks this will lead to some questions on her part... Especially since the last man she saw wearing a mask was a certain Buquet murderer...

And here they were finally getting somewhere!


	15. Chapter 15

Extra chapter turned into me going out of town to a land without internet, but here! This is... early-ish, right? *hangs head* So I'm terribly sorry! As usual. Goodness, I sound like a broken record...

Okay, so enough of me. Onward!

* * *

"Erik?" Christine murmured, unsure of what she'd felt and how he had reacted. "What is..."

"You should not have touched me!" He had lurched away so violently that she feared he'd hurt his neck, and the way his shoulders hunched it was almost as if she'd wounded him somehow. Was he hurt?

There was something odd about his skin. It did not feel like normal flesh—at least, not like her own did. She'd not had time to investigate thoroughly, but her overall impression that something was very wrong with it. And though she did not like to admit it, his reaction to her hesitant touch hurt her feelings.

"I'm sorry," she tried to soothe, backing away slightly. She wasn't afraid of him, of course she wasn't, but posture reminded her of a cornered animal, frightened and ready to lash out at the smallest movement.

She didn't know what she'd done, but evidently it was a terrible thing. "Erik? What did I do?"

He did not answer, the only noise he made, huffed breaths as he sank down on the corner of the bed. "Why did you have to touch?"

She'd touched him before. His hand, his arm. Now that she thought of it, however, she supposed that in reality he'd been covered. He had a fondness for gloves and long sleeves, and she remembered how shockingly pale his feet had been when he'd joined her on the beach. Evidently he liked to keep every part of himself out of the sun. "Do you... do you have trouble with germs?"

He snorted out a laugh, though she could not detect any humor in it. "Silly, foolish, Christine."

She bristled at that. "Well, some people do and they don't like their skin touched."

 _But that wasn't skin that you felt, was it?_

A voice that was not her own drifted through her ear, and she fought down her confusion. She had only come to his room to see what was going on with Detective Nadir—with the case. Erik had called from her room but had left soon after, and she'd rather been looking forward to hearing the conversation. A part of her had hoped that he'd still be speaking to him so perhaps she could catch a snippet of their dealings, but instead she had missed all of it.

Only to somehow have instated some kind of fit on Erik's part.

She hadn't meant to. Truly she hadn't.

She wanted to go to him, to put her hand upon his shoulder and ask him to tell her of his troubles, but he'd rejected her so completely that she doubted her welcome now. "Do you... do you want me to go?"

It seemed wrong to offer as it was the last thing she wished. He was still breathing strangely, a hoarse, gasping sound that was contrary to the cool and stoic man she had come to know.

He laughed again, rocking slightly on the bed as he shook his head. "Of course she wants to go. No one ever stays for long when they see. When they know."

Know what?

"Erik," she stated firmly, proud that she managed to keep the tremble from her voice. "You're starting to frighten me. What did I see? What do I know?"

His hands which had gone to cover his face, suddenly fell, and he turned to her, his eyes haunted by demons she couldn't possibly begin to understand. It hurt just to look at him. "Do not pretend. You felt it. You know that this is a farce." He gestured over his face, his frustration evident, and Christine grew all the more confused.

She took a careful step forward, trying to gauge his reaction as she did so. He did not recoil, did not yell at her to leave the room, and she took that as a positive sign. "I don't know anything of the sort."

And she didn't.

His face was perfectly normal. There was that odd smudge—a seam?—that she'd seen when she'd hugged him earlier, but she had never thought to question anything about his features. He was simply... average.

Yet apparently not everything was as it seemed.

With a bracing breath, she closed the remaining space between them, cautiously taking a seat beside him on the bed. She did not touch him, merely allowed silence to linger between them as he fought for his composure, and she to make sense of any of this.

She had not expected for him to be the one to speak first. "I thought of lying," he told her, his voice tight and raspy—almost as if he held back tears. "If ever you discovered, I was going to tell you that I had been hurt doing something noble. Perhaps I was badly burned saving one of my charges and this was the unfortunate result." He chuckled, a thin, reedy sound. "Maybe you would have admired me for it."

Christine shook her head, not understanding. "I don't want you to lie to me." And she meant it. She valued honesty, even if the truth was a difficult, complicated thing; yet in this she was coming to realize that it held more pain for him than she had initially thought possible.

"Of course you do not. For you are a good, honest girl, who would not wish to have dealings with anything less."

She wondered if he was mocking her, but he continued before she could question him. "I was born this way, you see. And none loved me for it. My _mother_ ," he said the word with barely concealed contempt, "thought me hideous, a bur and a blight, unworthy of even the smallest affection."

She needed to be sure, even though her mouth was dry as she formed the words. "Are we talking about a deformity?"

A barely perceptible nod was his only reply.

She had seen some, of course. Her home had been in a large city, with all sorts of people living in it. But he seemed so ashamed of it, so absolutely certain that she would spurn him if she knew what he truly looked like. And if what he said about his mother was true, such had been the case before. But there was no doubting him, so sincere and harrowed was his tone, his eyes. They pierced her heart and made her wish to weep for him. "What about your father?"

Surely there was someone. Please, let there have been someone who had loved him in his youth.

Yet Erik merely scoffed, his expression hardening. "Gone. Another crime on my part, at least according to the miserable woman who had the misfortune to birth me. Evidently if she had not become pregnant, he would not have left."

Christine closed her eyes. She knew that not everyone had a happy childhood such as hers. But to hear of it, of rejection and pain since infancy...

Her poor, unhappy Erik.

He had thought to call it the result of a burn, but that did not give her a very good impression of what might be wrong. Scarred flesh could take on many appearances. How much of him was affected? "Do you… will you show me?"

Erik leaned away from her, his eyes narrowed, his posture defensive. "Why? So you may think me a monster as well?"

Christine held her tongue, not wanting to further insight his ire when it clearly was so close to the surface. All she wanted was to understand, but clearly he had a lifetime of memories that suggested otherwise. "No. Because I'd like to know you. All of you. And obviously this is something important."

He gave her an incredulous look. "And it would not be to you? To appear as a living corpse, so thin and pale and ugly, an abomination of the most dreadful sort—you would not seek to hide it?"

Christine swallowed, hoping that he was exaggerating. She couldn't imagine what he'd described, visions of poorly funded zombie movies coming to mind. But his tone, though derisive, was in earnest, and she could not ignore that. "That's not what I said. Please don't put words in my mouth. I'm just trying to understand you."

He appeared sullen, not quite accepting her claim, and she felt helpless at how to proceed. She wanted to put her arm around him, to assure him that it didn't matter, yet her mind reeled all the same. How had he hidden this for so long? She wanted to touch his face again, to try to uncover his secret, but he had reacted so poorly before that she dare not attempt it again. "Does it hurt?" she finally asked, hoping he'd grow more comfortable if he spoke of the particulars that did not have to do with how his deformity actually appeared.

Erik did not seem keen on speaking of it at all, but eventually he offered a rather begrudging reply. "The mask is... uncomfortable. It is applied with a new adhesive, one that evidently I do... not react well to."

Christine winced. Her skin had always been sensitive, rashes appearing when she tried new products, certain fabrics rubbing and irritating if they had any sort of rasp to them. "All this time? Every day, when you've been fretting about my comfort, you've been suffering?"

Erik shrugged. "I do not wish to alarm you. This mask provides me the most coverage, the most _normalcy,_ and I did not want..." He stopped, hanging his head, as if the remnants of his anger had been all that was holding him together.

Tentatively, she put her hand upon his arm. "What didn't you want?"

"I didn't want you to see me that way. As a monster. I wanted you to know that I could take care of you, protect you. And you... you seemed to actually _like_ my presence." His tone suggested how unbelievable he found that to be, and she felt another pang of sympathy for him. "I did not want for that to change."

"Erik," she murmured, her arms nearly aching to wrap about him. Finally, she lost her will to fight it and leaned closer, his arm rigid and unyielding against her as she wrapped herself about it. Their position on his bed was too awkward for her to hug him properly, but she would settle for this. "What if I told you that I won't be able to rest easy now unless I know you're comfortable? That I'll worry and fret about what that mask is doing to you until I won't be able to think of anything else?"

She'd tucked her head against his arm, so she could not see his reaction, but his voice was thoughtful. "I do not want you to think of it at all."

She was sure he didn't. For a time she'd simply been able to accept him as she would any other man, but things had changed. There was no ignoring that.

"Do you have anything that's easier to wear?"

"Yes," he admitted, although his voice suggested he did not appreciate her continued prodding. "But you would not like to look at it."

"Forget about me," she insisted, pulling away slightly so he could see her sincerity. "What's important is that you aren't harming yourself just because you're afraid of my reactions. If it would help I'd say that we could stay here for a few days and you would wear nothing at all, but somehow I don't think you'd agree to that."

His eyes widened, and belatedly she realized what she'd said and she hastened to clarify. "Not wear a _mask_ ," she explained, a blush staining her cheeks. "Obviously you'd still have... clothes."

Erik watched her closely, and she could have sworn that she saw some form of amusement in his expression before it clouded over in despair. "You are sweetness itself to think that, Christine. But I have the benefit of knowing what is underneath the mask, and you would not be so generous if you had that same knowledge."

They seemed to be at a standstill, and Christine hated it. He wouldn't trust her, not fully, until she'd seen it, but he wasn't willing to risk her rejection by allowing her to do so.

"Take a picture," she blurted out, not giving much consideration to her idea before speaking of it aloud. Her blush deepened when he looked at her with sheer alarm. "Take a picture of you without a mask and I'll go into my room and look at it. And I promise you, Erik, you won't be unhappy that you let me see."

* * *

Sooo... there's a bit of a different solution! Think he'll go through with it? Or maybe he'll just bolt...


	16. Chapter 16

Surprise! No, your eyes do not deceive you, 'tis another update! I've felt badly for the shorter updates and my forgetfulness, so have another segment on me! This one is a pretty big one... Though maybe in ways you might not expect...

Onward!

* * *

xvi

Erik was torn. He wanted to reject the notion completely—the very thought of allowing Christine to see any part of his hideousness filling him with revulsion. She was the only one to look at him with fondness, and to lose that, lose her...

He would rather suffer the physical discomfort of an ill-chosen adhesive than have to endure that.

"Why?" he asked at last, needing to know why it was so important to her.

"Because it obviously matters to you."

How could it _not_ matter? His entire body, his face, was the manifestation of the twisted nature of his soul. He lacked in empathy, in compassion, he had no goodness to give to anybody—of that he had been assured since birth. Yet Christine wanted to see it, to study it. Others had asked. Of course they had. Some had even paid for the privilege of looking upon him, only to gasp in delighted horror that such a person could even exist. To revel in their comparative beauty. And he had to endure their looks, their judgment, all the while a burning hatred seared into his heart.

And now Christine wanted to see as well.

Because it mattered to him.

He could not say that it made a great deal of sense to him, but so little about Christine did. Her every action surprised him, her responses never quite what he expected. Was it possible that even in this she could prove so very different?

She was clutching at his arm, her fingers drifting softly over his shirtsleeves and he distantly wondered if the action was for his sake or her own. She had seemed a little frightened by him, which had never been his intention, and he regretted snapping at her.

"What did you do with your other charges? I mean, if you say this mask is new, what did you wear then?"

He could lie, but he was so very weary of it all. The deception—her looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes as he continued to feed her with falsehoods.

So in this at least, he could be honest. "You are my first. I thought I could manage it all, but evidently I have proved wanting."

She blinked at him, her brow furrowing, and he wondered if he had revealed too much. Maybe his story wasn't consistent now and she'd begin to doubt everything. Let her. He would answer her questions as she willed, but not before.

"You've been great, Erik, really. I never would have thought you were lacking in any experience."

He smiled ruefully. "I have made many mistakes, not the least of which was attempting to hide my true appearance." He had done more than that, of course. He had deceived her into coming with him at all. He had made her believe that the specter who plagued her nightmares was another man entirely.

But could he trust her with this?

He wanted to. He wanted to be free from it all. To know if one single person, the woman he loved, could look at him with more than revulsion. Which was why he could not simply give her a photograph and allow her to peruse it at her whim. He needed to see, to be certain of her opinion. Emotions could be schooled, and in all her goodness she could seek to spare him at the expense of her own feelings. And he most certainly would not inflict his face upon her in future when in reality she hated it.

Hated him.

Erik rose from the bed, moving to the desk by the window and began the tedious process of removing his mask. He could tear it from his skin—very nearly wanted to—but that would be a horror on its own and only inflict more damage onto his already inflamed flesh.

Christine sat silently, watching him as he did so, as he carefully loosened the adhesive and pulled away the prosthetic.

Leaving only his papery skin behind.

And then he turned, awaiting her reaction.

He did not know what he expected. A gasp, perhaps, or maybe a scream. He had received both before, though he knew even now that to receive either would wound him more deeply than any previously had managed.

Erik stood, his head held high, even as he wanted to cower and shrink away. Let her see, let her know, but at least he would know what to expect of her in future.

He did not expect for her to come to him, her eyes perhaps a bit wider than usual, but holding no fear, no disgust.

Only tears.

Yet that alone was enough to shatter him.

"Christine," he remarked stiffly, ready to distance himself from her. She was in _his_ bedroom and that would make her eviction more difficult. He did not have the luxury of merely fleeing her presence. "Perhaps you should…"

His words fled when suddenly a force hit his chest, as Christine was once more clinging to him, only this time instead of holding only his arm within her grasp, it was his entire torso. "I'm sorry if people were cruel to you for this. But I won't be. I promise. You aren't a monster, or anything of the sort. And I'm sorry most that they made you believe that."

Erik hadn't the least idea how to respond. He could not even coax his hands into holding her in return, as they remained taut and unresponsive at his sides.

He felt thoroughly overwhelmed.

And though a part of him wanted to clutch her to him, to refuse to let her go in the face of her acceptance, he mostly felt shaken. He needed a moment alone, to regroup, to think.

Because if she could embrace him, had _seen_ and still wanted to be near him…

He was not certain he could ever let her go.

"Christine," he said again, this time not managing to sound as unaffected. "You should return to bed. I must… I must think."

If possible, her grip on him tightened slightly before she relaxed, her head shaking against his chest before she looked up at him. "No. I don't trust you with thinking. You'll probably twist this into something bad, and I won't have it. Not when it concerns me."

He very nearly chuckled at her, at her earnestness, her sweetness, and with a trembling hand—fully unsure of his welcome—he allowed himself to skim the apple of her cheek with his thumb. "You need sleep."

She released a trembling breath, and before he could think that he had been wrong to touch her, she smiled at him softly. "Come walk with me. We didn't get to before, and I want to."

Midnight had long since passed. There was a drizzle in the air, and it surely would be cold. "I am not… dressed properly."

He hoped she would not make him say it. Already he wanted to turn away lest she change her mind and think him too ugly—that perhaps the light was particularly flattering and she did not yet fully comprehend the extent of his appearance.

But she rested her head against his chest so trustingly, and he could not bring himself to move.

If she could but love him… he was quite willing to do anything she asked. Including remain stationary for her to lean against until she desired otherwise.

"It's dark outside," she reminded him. "But if you really have to wear one, you said you had more comfortable options. And before you say it's too cold for me, I'll bundle up too. You'll see. It'll be fun." She peered up at him, her eyes so very beautiful. "Please?"

Apparently he could deny her nothing.

Christine didn't want to give him any reason to refuse, so perhaps she bundled a bit too thoroughly. She'd chosen a red scarf to match her Wellies, and tucked her umbrella into her raincoat pocket. She'd forsaken her nightgown for a thick sweater and leggings, and already she was a bit overheated in the comfort of the hotel room.

But she knew this was needed. Every glimpse into Erik's true nature was like seeing a chasm of loneliness and pain, and to leave someone alone with such thoughts, even with what comfort and acceptance she'd sought to give him... before long he would make it some twisted things. And she couldn't stand that thought.

His face was not what she had expected. She wished she could say that he most assuredly did not look like a corpse, but there was something apt in the description—though she would never, ever admit it to him. It would explain how his nose seemed to have been lost, the sunken quality of his eyes and cheeks. Though in reality, she was rather certain that with time, his skin would look much better than it had in that moment. If the flesh covering his hands was any indication, it would smooth and pale instead of appearing so red and inflamed. It made her want to dig out a cream from her suitcase in an attempt to soothe it. To suggest it could be explained by a burn didn't seem very accurate, but perhaps she hadn't seen enough of the third degree variety to know for certain. He was... unfortunate to look at. He didn't fill her with revulsion, something she had silently steeled herself toward, but he made her sad. Not for his appearance alone, but for all that it must have cost him. He was a damaged soul, bruised and angry, and all she wanted to do was hold him until all the rest melted away.

But he hadn't responded very positively to that attempt, so perhaps a nighttime walk with her would improve his spirits.

There was a gentle knock and upon her answer, Erik opened the door. This mask was of the nude variety, but there was little mistaking that it was indeed one. He had a hat upon his head, and his shoulders were slightly hunched, and his eyes darted frequently back toward his bedroom.

"Ready?" she asked as cheerfully as she could manage. It really was too warm with her layers, so she unwound her scarf, leaving it to hang free about her neck. Better.

Erik grimaced. "If I must be."

She frowned, briefly reconsidering. But her instincts told her that to allow it would only hurt him more, so instead she held out her hand and smiled, hoping he would accept her invitation and they could be on their way.

And something in her warmed when he did so.

Erik had not been mistaken about the chill in the air. Christine thought it marvelous, but she was grateful that he had warned her. Erik was a silent partner beside her, and they rambled through the darkened streets, no true direction in mind.

Until the smell of salt hit her, and then the unmistakable sound of waves.

She'd seen the coast as they'd driven, of course she had, but she hadn't realized that the hotel was so close to the beach.

The moon was full, its reflection on the water providing enough light to see by. It was beautiful, dark and perhaps a bit stormy, but powerful.

Erik squeezed her hand more firmly. "You are not going near it. Not when it is so dark."

Christine glanced up at him before nodding. "No, you're right. That would be dangerous." A little ways off was a bench, not dissimilar to the one they had found before, and she tugged until he followed her toward it. "I just want to sit for a little while, then we can go back. I won't go near the water. Promise."

Erik grunted, but since he did not try to dissuade her overly much, she thought that was acceptance enough.

This beach was more sand than rock, and she was glad of her footwear as it kept it all from reaching her socks. She glanced down at Erik's feet, but she couldn't quite make out the nature of his shoes. She hoped he wouldn't be bothered.

A particularly large gust of wind came suddenly as they neared the bench, and to her great surprise, she watched as her scarf was suddenly taken from her neck and spiraled toward the water's edge. She gasped, lurching forward and about to run after it, when a hand clamped down upon her shoulder.

"You promised," he reminded her.

"But, Papa gave me that scarf!"

She stood powerlessly as it landed on the sand, a wave coming and beginning to sweep it out toward the sea. She wouldn't reach it in time. Her heart ached just to think it.

But though she was about to accept that it was lost, assure him that she remembered her promise and would suffer its absence—never mind that it had been a favorite. Never mind that her papa had bought it for her along with her Wellies. She had complained about the rain, that everything was so dreary and black when the skies were overcast. And then one day he had brought home two boxes, telling her with some amusement that she could open them.

"How can you be sad when you're wearing red?" he'd asked her.

And she hadn't been. Couldn't be. Not when he loved her so much.

Why was she always so careless with the things he had given her? The things that were his?

But suddenly Erik was gone from her side, his long legs taking him toward the ocean's edge.

Christine took a few steps forward, praying that he wouldn't make any foolhardy attempt at its rescue. He didn't like the water, he'd told her that, and she'd wanted him to feel better by coming out here—not frighten him and get him soaked because she hadn't tied her scarf properly.

She halted well before the waves reached the sand, and she watched with horror as Erik waded a little ways into the water. "Erik, please, it's all right! It isn't worth it!"

He stood, turning back toward her. "But it is yours." He took another step out toward the sea, and tears welled in her eyes as she pictured him being swept away. She'd be helpless to save him. He was too big, the water too rough, and he was the one with a phone to call for help. "Please, just come back! You're more important to me."

Erik stilled. "I am?"

She very nearly stamped her foot, so anxious was she that he remove himself from the waves. " _Yes!_ Now come back!"

He obeyed, wading back toward her. He would be wet now, and there would be no sitting on the bench, gazing out into the dark. She would insist they return to the hotel and he change into some pajamas, and might even tuck him into bed for good measure.

Foolish man.

But when he drew closer, she finally took notice of a sodden bit of red clutched within his grasp, and quite ridiculously a sob caught in her throat as she recognized it. "You saved it," she murmured disbelievingly.

"It mattered to you," he answered simply.

And knowing with absolute certainty that it was true, she closed the distance between them, her hands reaching up to his neck and pulling him downward. "You matter more. But thank you."

And before she could think better of it, before she could conjure all the reasons it was wrong and silly and so utterly unlike herself…

She kissed him.

There was no mistaking when his arms wrapped around her in return, her wet scarf pressing against her back.

And when his lips so tentatively moved against hers, she knew there was nothing wrong about it. Nothing at all. Not when it was with him.

* * *

Sooo... who supposed we were going to go from unmasking to midnight strolls to _kissing_?! And who's proud of Erik for taking it off himself and showing her of his own accord. And it looks like somebody else got to be the hero of her scarf this time!

Until next time, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	17. Chapter 17

Welp, apparently my focus really has shifted to my new story because I almost posted a segment from that instead of this! That would have been a _very_ different change of pace! Trudging through a tunnel carved by giant worm-like beasts, anyone?

No?

Oh, well, then. How about a reaction to a kiss? Think it'll be nice?

Onward!

* * *

xvii

Erik's mind was a silent thing. No doubts plagued him, yet no rapturous exultations came either. He simply felt. And was amazed. For Christine was kissing him.

Only in his most innermost dreams had he considered such a thing possible, but his rational thought had ensured that he remained very much aware of its impossibility. She would have a proper young man, one day. One handsome enough to give her beautiful children, kind enough that his past was not littered with death and horror.

And yet here she stood, out in the cold, kissing _him_.

He was certain he was not doing it right. What few films he had seen before he had banished romance from his collection entirely—it was simply too painful to view something that would never be—depicted passionate embraces, robust lips that nearly devoured one another. But instead he tried to be gentle and chaste, fearful that to do anything more might frighten her away and make her regret her action.

And nothing could wound him more than that.

Christine did pull away eventually, and he was gladdened when instead of moving away from him entirely as he had feared, instead she rested her head against his chest, a small smile playing about her lips. "You're very tall," she commented, almost apologetically, and he wondered if she suffered some discomfort from the angle. He frowned at the thought, the hand not occupied with holding her scarf coming to rest upon her neck, rubbing softly.

"That is disagreeable?"

She shifted slightly against him, and he stilled his hand. Simply because they had kissed did not give him the right to touch her at will. "My apologies," he murmured, letting it fall back to his side. He could not quite convince his other to release her completely.

Christine peered up at him, and he could make out the faintest of blushes on her cheeks. "That felt very nice, Erik. You don't need to be sorry."

He watched her carefully for any deceit, any sign that she was merely saying so to appease his feelings, but he could detect none. Tentatively, he allowed his hand to return to her back, holding her close. His feet were wet, his pant legs up to his knees equally so, and it was an uncomfortable thing. Yet, with her in his arms and uncertain when he could experience it again, he was unwilling to be the one to force them to part.

He would have liked to have remained solely focused on Christine, on the way she felt nestled so sweetly against him, to remember the feel of her upon his lips as he drew the lower one between his teeth to see if he could taste her there. But instead he watched the beach, ever mindful that his duty was not only to her whims, but to her protection. And while he was fairly certain they had temporarily escaped their pursuer, he would not risk Christine. Not for anything in the world. Not even her kisses.

Though he would very much like to have one again.

He was embarrassed that he very nearly wanted to weep at her small affection. It would only frighten her, only cause her to question the stability of her chosen recipient, so he refrained from allowing such a display, even as he wanted to fall to her feet and clutch her to him, thanking her for bestowing what no other woman had even attempted.

"Your feet must be cold," she told him eventually, and he wished he could assure her that they were perfectly well. She took his silence as confirmation, and pulled out of his arms, holding her hand out to him as she did so. "We should head back."

He was being too quiet, if her frequent glances of concern were any indication of her thoughts. But words eluded him, now that he had entered this strange new world of possibility. She would not kiss him if she was repulsed, would she? Impossible. His mother had never managed to do so, and many had claimed that birthing a child imbued a greater love than many were capable of experiencing.

Evidently his birth had instilled quite the opposite.

He followed Christine obediently as she led them back up to their hotel rooms, pulling out her key card and tugging him inside. He hesitated in the entry, belatedly noticing how much sand clung to his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. "I must change," he said at last.

"You need pajamas," she told him firmly. "I'm starting to believe you don't have any, but you must sleep in something other than a suit."

To his surprise, she drifted through to his room, and to his greater horror, moved to his suitcase. Before she could begin to unzip it, he had crossed the room, startling her when his hand clamped down over the pull. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Erik?"

He forced his voice to hold some measure of calm. "There are dangerous things inside, Christine. Mustn't touch."

He always kept some sort of weapon on his person, though now that the threat to Christine was a real, tangible entity, he had bedecked himself with three varieties. Nothing was going to happen to her, not while he was near. But the rest were safely tucked away in his suitcase, and she was not to go near them. It seemed... wrong to picture her holding something lethal. Even more so to imagine her in a situation that would make its use necessary. He could not taint her so.

Yet perhaps it would not be remiss to teach her some means of defense, should the unthinkable ever occur and he was unable to be with her.

He swallowed thickly, the thought making him cold.

Christine eyed him suspiciously, but her hand left his suitcase. "Okay," she said at last, though something in her posture indicated he had offended her in some way. She made to leave, and before he could think better of it, his hand reached out and grasped her forearm.

"Christine," he tried again. "This is not a matter of trust. Nor do I think you too childish to act responsibly with them, if that is what you were to accuse me of next." She softened somewhat at that, and he hated that she would have thought so. "What were you going to retrieve?" That seemed a safer question than allowing her to enquire as to the nature of all of his weaponry that would prove so dangerous to her.

"You need warm socks. _Not_ dress socks." She glanced down at his feet before leaning downward, tugging up his pant leg and evidently finding his current pair to be wanting.

Erik took a step backward, releasing Christine and keeping her from a more efficient perusal. He was not sure what to think about her fussing. It was... endearing, he supposed, but unexpected and most certainly foreign, and it would take some time to consider things.

Christine frowned at him, but allowed for his retreat, for which he was grateful. "You should go to bed," he told her once again, hoping that this time she would listen. Before, she had insisted on a walk, but now his feet truly were cold and his ankles were thoroughly uncomfortable where his trousers had mingled with both water and sand, so there was little chance he would agree to another such distraction.

And she did look tired. Her eyes appeared slightly less alert than usual, her movements perhaps a little sluggish. She stifled a yawn behind her hand, though she tried to remain firm as she watched him. "How do I know you'll take care of yourself?"

Erik offered her an indulgent smile. "I have been doing so for longer than you have walked this earth, Christine."

Her lips thinned at that, and he wondered if he had offended her. He was truly not so very much older than her, though he was not entirely sure of his own age as a comparison. He had a guess—had conjured some of his earliest memories to compare to the events of the time to create a rough estimate—but it did not seem overly important.

Unless it troubled her.

Erik did not like that thought.

"That shouldn't have been necessary," she told him quietly, her expression still unhappy—a result of his own careless words. What had been meant as an assurance of his capability, clearly had not been taken in such a way.

"Christine," he soothed, unsure of how to do it properly, but determined to try his best. Whenever she thought him upset, she touched his arm, so he started there, his own long-fingered hand seeming to dwarf the delicate bone. He swallowed, briefly unnerved by the sight. What business did he have touching her without her explicit permission? Especially since it was so readily apparent that he could so easily exert his will over her own.

He determined to pull away, to extract himself from her person before she could find it objectionable, but to his great surprise, she seemed to relax somewhat from his attempt.

"Well, it's true," she told him steadily. "And... we're together now, aren't we?" Her cheeks were a bright red, and it took him a moment to supply the meaning of her words.

Together.

A couple.

It was amazing how she could render him completely breathless with such few words.

"Did you wish to be?" he managed to ask, thoughts and words very nearly escaping him.

"Only if you want," Christine responded, not quite looking at him.

Foolish Christine.

As if her offering alone was not the greatest gift anyone had bestowed upon him—as if he could possibly reject it. Perhaps he was a selfish man, that he should have encouraged her toward a better one than he, but he could not form the words. Not when she so sweetly was asking if he wanted her, wanted them to be _more_.

Together.

He approved that word.

"I should like nothing more," he replied earnestly.

Things would have to change, if she was his. He would allow no harm to befall her, no threat of his past to overcome what happiness they manage to uncover. He would make her happy, would stop at nothing until she was so. He would find her a house, a safe one this time, private and secure, and he would give her money enough that she could buy all the baubles and trinkets she required until she felt at home.

And maybe, someday, she would allow him to be the one to give her a diamond.

And a day soon after, she would give him a ring of his very own.

If only.

She smiled at him, finally meeting his eye even as her blush refused to quiet. "I'd like that too," she confessed, and something tight and troublesome in his chest began to loosen.

For reasons he could not even begin to explain, she wanted him. There was no mistaking that she had initiated their kiss upon the beach. Even his mind, with its so frequent torments, could not find a way to twist their exchange to seem as though he had forced himself upon her.

She had kissed him, had wanted him, and apparently she did not view it with regret.

But instead wanted to establish something more.

His dear, sweet girl.

Christine hadn't meant to have this conversation now. She was going to wait until she'd slept, had time to think and be sure of what she hoped would come next. Kissing him had been impulsive, had been a culmination of her fear for him as well as her gladness that he was whole and well and had returned to her—her precious scarf in hand.

But as they'd walked back to the hotel, she'd been acutely aware of how uncomfortable he had been, and she could not ignore her growing desire to care for him. That had to stem from more than simple gratitude, did it not?

Nothing had changed. Not really. He still worked for the marshal's office, and she was still an assignment. They were no closer to finding a safe haven from her pursuer, no more hopeful that they could return home in the near future.

And yet, everything felt different.

She wanted to hold his hand again, wanting to strip off his shoes and socks and replace them with a fuzzy pair of her own, just to be sure he was taken care of properly. He had told her already that no one had ever done such things for him—a terrible thing in its own right—but it wasn't enough that _someone_ should provide him such things.

She wanted to be the one to give him that.

"I'm so glad," she told him, quite sincerely. She was glad he wanted her—that her kisses had been wanted and reciprocated. He had been so still in the beginning, so stiff and uncertain that she had nearly come to think that he was simply too kind to push her away. And that thought proved remarkably devastating.

And she hoped she wasn't being too forward, too insistent when their relationship was still so new and tenuous, but she pressed on. "But if we're a couple now, doesn't that mean I get to fuss over you if I want to?" Perhaps it was a bit manipulative, blinking at him that way, her tone just a little cajoling, but she worried for him—both for his wet feet, and the man beneath. The small glimpses he allowed her of his home life were bleak ones, with abuse and neglect so commonplace that he accepted them without question. She hated it. Hated that he hadn't known the love of a mother, the comforting pats of a father.

But at least he'd known a woman's kiss. One that cared about him deeply.

And it made her smile.

Erik was staring down at her, his eyes narrowed and clearly considering her enquiry. "I suppose," he admitted carefully. "Though I warn you, you are setting a precedence for when your own needs are in question."

She hadn't thought of that. But remembering how she'd awoken earlier, terrified and lost only to find him there... if that meant when she was sick he wanted to ply her with medicines and tea and tuck her into bed, surely that would not be an unwelcome thing.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to make sure I take care of you well enough that you'll know what I expect when it's my turn."

She was presuming far, _far_ too much. She knew that. He hadn't promised her anything. They had only kissed. But to her it felt like a great deal more. And when he looked at her that way, with such quiet disbelief as if she could not possibly be real, she allowed herself to imagine that it meant just as much to him.

Erik said nothing else before undoing the zipper of his suitcase, giving her a warning glance that she took as her cue to temporarily exit the room. She did so, deciding she would find her most suitable pair of socks and put on her nightgown once more. Perhaps with a few more layers for modesty.

Maybe.

The lateness of the hour was becoming all the more apparent as she stifled yet another yawn. She listened closely to the room beyond and was pleased to hear the shower running. Good. Shower, pajamas, socks, and bed. And maybe then he wouldn't get some terrible cold for her sake. She shimmied into her nightgown, folding her clothes haphazardly and placing them back into her own suitcase, determining to make a better effort in the morning.

She hoped he would allow them to sleep in tomorrow. Christine sincerely doubted it, knowing Erik's penchant for early starts, but she was so very tired. She looked over at her bed with a grimace. The walk had been good for her, feeding her exhaustion and hopefully quieting the last of her nightmares. But even so, she did not relish the possibility of waking yet again, fearful and alone.

She shook herself. She'd been on her own for quite some time, and suffered plenty of disturbing dreams. And while she'd usually soothed herself well enough to go back to sleep, now that she remembered what it was like to have someone there, for arms to encircle her and to feel so safe and sure...

Christine did not relish the thought of returning to her lonely existence.

She rifled through her suitcase and found a pair of what she hoped would be adequate socks. They were technically of the deepest purple, but she hoped if the light was dim enough he would mistake them for black... if he thought they were of his usual color, perhaps he would not recoil quite so much at the thought of wearing them.

She could hope at least.

Waiting for Erik to exit the bathroom was a tedious business, and she very nearly fell asleep in the attempt. It likely was not so terribly long, but now that she was comfortable, her sleeping sweater tucked cozily about her and one of her less garish pairs of socks pulled over her knees, her drowsiness was beginning to take over. The only thing that kept her from reclining and giving in was the knowledge that she currently sat on Erik's bed, and that would be highly inappropriate. Or, she tried to keep reminding herself of that. It seemed more comfortable somehow, the duvet a little softer, the mattress a bit more plump. And she was so very tired…

The door clicking made her jerk, and she blinked tiredly. She hadn't dozed off had she?

Erik looked… different. They weren't normal pajamas. Even though they clearly varied from his usual attire of suited perfection, his current clothes were not at all similar to the casual, even careless garments her papa wore to bed.

These were black—did he own anything else? There were his crisp white shirts, of course, but those hardly counted—silky and luxurious.

And she was staring.

He did not seem to appreciate it.

Guiltily, she held out the socks. She glanced down at his bare feet, hoping they would fit. They were stretchy and were not remotely snug on her, and she thought they would accommodate his much longer feet. "Here," she offered, not moving from the edge of the bed. She was too tired to move. "They'll help you warm up."

Erik eyed them with distaste, and she kept from curling her legs toward herself. She would not be embarrassed by her own pair, no matter how he glared the proffered selection.

She was certain he would argue, her slightly muzzy mind already preparing itself for having to persuade him. But instead, he released a longsuffering sigh and accepted them. He sat down slightly away from her on the bed, donning them with all the appearance of one harangued into action.

"Thank you," she told him, meaning it. She wanted to take care of him, and it meant a great deal that he would allow it.

Erik grunted lowly. "You have turned me into a cross dresser."

Christine's mouth dropped open. "I did not!"

He stared down at his feet, eyeing them dubiously. They fit him well, and there was nothing _girly_ about them. "You purchased them in the women's department, did you not? Meaning that they were never intended for a male to don them."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Erik, they're practically just knitted tubes. I hardly think you need to read into it so much." She plucked at the sleeve of her sweater. "Besides, I didn't buy those. I made them. Meg taught me during breaks at the theatre."

Maybe that would make him feel less weird about things. She hoped so. Because seeing him wear them, something that she'd made, that she'd picked especially for him to wear… it was rather endearing.

Erik no longer looked quite as stiff as he continued to look at his feet. "You made them?" He leaned forward slightly to study them more closely. "You did… a very adequate job."

Christine grinned. "How magnanimous of you to say so."

Erik grimaced. "I was attempting to pay you a compliment."

Christine's smile faded and she drew a little nearer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. She was so sleepy. And it didn't seem important to quibble with him. "Well, thank you, then."

He stayed very still, except that his arm shifted slowly, tentatively, until it curled about her and her head rested against his shoulder. "You need your rest, Christine. I am dry and warm enough and you have no cause to worry any longer."

"Don't wanna move," she groused, already feeling not quite herself. Sleep beckoned and he shouldn't be talking…

And then the sweetest melody began, a soft, gentle hum that soothed and lulled her completely into slumber.

* * *

Soooo... that escalated quickly! First a withdrawn Christine, then a midnight stroll, to kissing and then sharing a bed! La de da! Happy with the direction this is going?

Think it will last?

Bwahahaha!

Ahem. Until next time!


	18. Chapter 18

Long, long, looooooooong day, and I nearly forgot about updating, but here we go! And... still on time, according to my coast! So I'm taking this as a win.

And since my brain is fried, I'll hush and simply say, onward!

* * *

xviii

"Erik!" Christine chastised, struggling to keep from laughing. "I told you I would unpack all my things, and that is _not_ what I had in mind!"

Erik had listened when she had told him thusly, but he was determined that this would be a home to her. At least for a time. There was always the lingering possibility that they would have to flee again in the near future—some troubling conversations with the Daroga had left him feeling wary and perhaps a bit too vigilant as he spent much of his nights staring out of windows and circling the property.

If Christine noticed anything was wrong, she did not say so. They had stayed at the hotel for another three days, time enough for him to secure a house. This one was not a part of a neighborhood, but instead was rather secluded, tucked away as it was on a beach. Christine had brightened immediately when she had seen it, for which he was glad, but he had partially selected it for his ability to defend it. Unless they came by boat—unlikely given the rocky overhangs to one side that would make navigation difficult—he only had the road to watch for signs of intrusion.

Staying with her in the hotel, sequestered with the memory of her kisses haunting his every thought, had been a difficult thing. Especially when he had given into temptation, and that first night, with her sleeping so sweetly against his shoulder, he had justified that it was simply too far to move her to her bed, and had tucked her into his own.

He had pressed no advantage, did nothing untoward. Had not even dared to get beneath the covers with her, instead staying on his side and simply watching, listening. It was a strange thing, having a presence with him. She must trust him quite a lot to have fallen asleep against his person, and he had hoped she would not be angry when she awoke.

And it was only when he was certain she was sleeping soundly, only then did he allow his tears to fall for all that she had given him.

Her blush had been a fearsome thing when she recognized where she was. He was dressed already, having gone down to the front desk and informing the manager of his intention to remain for another few days. He sat at the desk, absently searching through listings, while also waiting for word from Nadir as to whether or not the Shah was interested in his whereabouts.

The dratted man was moving slowly, or so Erik thought.

It had been nearly afternoon before Christine began to move. He would not tell her so, but so still had she been during the night, he had felt it necessary to press his fingers to her pulse, simply to ensure she had not perished in the night.

Her brow furrowed, evidently noting that the bed was not positioned on the same wall, and she sat up hastily, her cheeks pink and her eyes wide as she regarded him. "I'm in your bed," she stated unnecessarily. Well, he had already known she required tea in the mornings before their conversations improved.

"Obviously," Erik responded drolly, before he lifted the telephone—carefully cleaned upon his first arrival at this hotel—and ordering food for them both.

She had been awkward and uncertain for a while, and he began to regret his choice. It was purely selfish on his part, and perhaps it crossed some boundary that which he had been unaware. He'd had no expectations. Her kiss quite enough to secure his heart demanding the need for more. At least, not while she was unconscious and unable to participate.

Christine had calmed after a while, when she was clothed and the bed was made, and she'd hovered in his doorway again. She'd wanted to watch a movie, and he could see that she did not relish the thought of remaining in her own room, so she waited for him to offer his own to her.

As if he would ever refuse her.

They had passed the day pleasantly enough. She with her films, and he with his searching, both for a home and for news on their note-giver. He had incurred a few enemies throughout the years, but most seemed to now be incarcerated—perhaps the Daroga proved capable of _something_ in his role as policeman—while a few more were now deceased. Erik read through their obituaries, flowery, useless things that did little to supply the actual nature of their deaths. Murder or the unfortunate plight of nature? The only thing he knew for certain is that none had been at his hand.

When it came time for them to sleep once more, Christine far more than he, she had kissed his cheek lightly and bade him goodnight, slipping into her own room and shutting the door as much as she could without fully latching it.

And he tried to assure himself that she was not angry with him, even as he stared at his now empty bed, hating the sight of it.

When at last he had located a suitable property and found a landlord willing to let it on short notice, he was glad to be free of the hotel entirely. He missed the simple domesticity they had found in their previous house. He enjoyed watching Christine cook and fuss and putter about, though this time he would ensure it was more to her liking.

Which was why he had been researching images that appeared _homey_ , and a common theme seemed to be a pair of shoes from each of the occupants, lined up neatly beside the front door. Erik thought it slightly absurd, but he wanted Christine to be happy, and he hoped this would at least be a start to her feeling like this could be a home.

But so far it had only caused her to laugh at him, when she'd left the kitchen to find out what he'd been up to.

"I did not _unpack_ for you," he told her rather defensively. "You left your rain boots in our vehicle and I thought I would place them in a practical location."

Which did not explain his own pair of shoes next to hers, nor why it warmed him to see them there together, despite their absurdity.

He had also taken her coat and placed it on the rack in the hall. It would have been neater to install all of their outerwear in their designated closet, but as she seemed to really look at his efforts, a small smile beginning to play about her lips, he thought he had done rightly to place them just so.

"Thank you for bringing them in," she told him, her smile growing as she moved a little closer to him. "Now, are you going to come help me with dinner or am I going to have to do everything by myself?"

His skills had not improved, at least according to Christine. She would give him small tasks—usually things that involved knife work as she deemed him more than adequate with a blade. He did not feel the need to enlighten her as to how he had acquired such a skill set.

He had not intended for her to take on the responsibility of feeding them. He would learn— _was_ learning—and they could always frequent a restaurant and bring things home. But Christine had insisted they venture to the grocery store. He had wanted to send her in alone. If they had not received that note, he likely would have done so. But he could not allow her to go anywhere unprotected, and although she had told him that it was not necessary, he had donned his mask of normalcy and accompanied her. She had frowned at him all the while, no doubt fretting about his skin. "It is only for an hour," he reminded her, not for the first time. She would nod and place a few more things in the cart, only to look at him with concern not a moment later.

Christine had insisted he remove it almost as soon as they were through the doorway.

It should have annoyed him, for someone to make demands of him that most assuredly only dealt with his own person. But instead he found her worry for him to add to her charms, and he knew with certainty that he had chosen well, this woman he loved.

He had not told her yet. In truth, he had not the faintest idea how to do so, or if it even required a verbal acknowledgment. It seemed obvious to him when he would sit and read with her in the evenings, or when she would suggest they watch a movie together and she would shyly inch a bit closer until, one evening when she must have been feeling emboldened, she had even reached for his arm and placed it about her shoulder.

All of it still amazed him.

And made him feel all the more wretched for the things he had yet to tell her.

As he suspected, Christine handed him a knife, telling him to chop a few cloves of garlic while she fiddled with a bubbling pot on the stove. Evidently they were having pasta. He tried to remember if he liked pasta.

It was not as if he starved while in seclusion. He ate things. But he did not venture to restaurants—his mask that would make him like any other had not yet been completed, and it seemed too much a hassle to be worth the effort. What food he did select was delivered to an apartment near the theatre, a quick jaunt providing him with all that he needed, without the inconvenience of contact with another living soul.

His meals were simple ones, the single glass of wine he allowed himself of more interest than whatever food he prepared.

"Have you given any more thought to me getting a job?"

Erik grimaced, but kept to his chopping, hoping the small pieces of garlic were cut to her satisfaction.

He hated disappointing her, but he hated this conversation more. And only reminded him further that he would need to enlighten her as to the true nature of their... acquaintance. But to do so would hurt her. Frighten her. Especially now that they were growing closer. She was more affectionate, more generous in her touches and occasional kisses. There was nothing improper in their actions, and he did not delude himself into thinking there would be in the future. But he would enjoy her simple gestures, the warmth that spread through him at her impulsive hugs, even if he had yet to draw enough courage to instigate something of his own.

"Christine," he murmured, sighing softly.

She nodded, stirring a pot of noodles. "It's not safe for me to go out like that, right?"

That was true enough. "It would be... best that I remain with you while in public. I believe we are safe for the moment, but as much as I should wish to, I can make no guarantee." Not until he heard from the damnable Daroga again. His own enquiries had not proved fruitful, and he knew of none other that would have the resources to make such a threat from across an entire nation. Possibly further if the man was still in Europe.

Christine bit her lip. "So we might have to move again."

Erik looked at her sharply. "Would you like to? I was under the impression that you approved this place."

Christine leaned closer to him and stood on tiptoe so she could bestow a kiss on his covered cheek—one of his plain, leather options, per her earlier insistence. He hated that he could not feel her lips against his skin, but he was also grateful for the barrier. It could not be pleasant for her to kiss him, and she was a good, sweet girl for doing so...

"It's beautiful," she assured him, returning to her pot of sauce and motioning for him to add the garlic to the pinkish contents. He had been under the impression that marinara sauce should be _red_ , but Christine had dosed it liberally with heavy cream. "It tastes better," she promised him, shortly before he had excused himself to finish unloading the car, leaving her to concoct in peace.

Erik stood watching her as she stirred and tasted, contemplating. "It must be... difficult for you, to know that we are here for an indeterminate amount of time. You cannot make the friends you had requested."

Christine smiled, a sad sort of thing that made his heart ache. "I worry, that's all. I know I shouldn't. And I guess you're right. I was looking forward to setting down roots, and until we know more..." she shrugged. She began to lift the heavy pot of boiling water, evidently finding the pasta cooked to her satisfaction, but he intervened, lifting it and dumping the contents carefully into the waiting strainer already stationed in the sink.

He was not completely ignorant of culinary practices.

He was not expecting her to come to him when his hands were no longer full, wrapping her arms about him as was becoming her wont. "But I did want to thank you."

Erik cleared his throat. Each time it took a little less effort to relax, and he was a little quicker to respond with a pat or to hold her close. "You have already done so."

She shook her head before peering up at him. "No, I mean... I wanted to say thank you for being with me. It makes a lot of difference when you spend time with me and... I like it. Really like it. Us being here together. I don't want for that to change."

How did she have the power to affect him so keenly? Her desires were so simple, and so similar to his own. He questioned his worthiness. She was so lovely, so kind and gentle that any man would be most fortunate to secure her affections, but she claimed to have chosen him. He had yet to believe it fully, though every time she was near, every time she bestowed a touch or a brush of her lips against his own, he knew that she felt some measure of care for him. She was not the type to offer herself easily, or merely upon impulse.

"There is nothing I would be unwilling to do if it meant keeping you with me," he told her solemnly. And it was true. He doubted she understood the full implication of his words, but she smiled and held him a little closer, and that was enough for now.

Being in a relationship was not quite what she expected. Ones at the theatre tended to begin quickly, with dates or drinks after work when interest was shown on either side. Some fizzled quickly, while others proved more successful. She didn't know of anybody who had actually married a coworker, but Sorelli and her boyfriend had been serious for about a year.

But with Erik...

Things were easier than she anticipated. She thought that she would feel guilty, would have lingering doubts over the ethics of everything, but instead she felt more relaxed than she had since this entire business began. He was sweet and attentive, and made no effort to push her for more than she felt ready to give. For that she was especially grateful. There would be no avoiding him, no home to return to if things didn't work out, but everything so far had shown him to be a gentleman—and one that seemed to care for her a great deal.

And she could ask for little more than that.

She was sorry to release him, was becoming far too used to the feel of his arms about her, but the pasta was ready and needed to be mixed with the sauce, and she didn't want it to get cold.

It probably didn't count as a date. Not really. But she'd made a little effort with the table, lighting candles and using the nicer of the two sets of dishes their rental provided. It was all still rather confusing. She had always thought that she would clearly see a future whenever she became a couple with someone, but now...

They were still on the run. She was still a witness to a murder, and he was her marshal. But as he helped her carry the food to the table and pulled out her chair so she could sit, it was easy to pretend. She still wore his ring on her finger. He'd even given her a new ID card, a false last name replacing her own. She didn't recognize the address listed—most certainly had never lived there, but he'd said it didn't matter. It was enough to show anyone who asked, and would hold under scrutiny. She wouldn't even pretend to know about such things, so she simply accepted it and tucked it into her wallet, feeling a little better for having it.

Especially since it showed that her last name matched his. She may have peeked into his own wallet to check, abandoned as it was on his desk at the hotel. He'd slipped out for a moment to make a call, and though she felt perhaps a little guilty for looking, she wasn't really doing anything wrong.

At least, that is what she told herself. She didn't inspect his credit cards, or the rather significant amount of cash tucked into the pocket of the slim, black leather wallet, instead simply looking at his ID before returning it precisely to where he'd left it.

And she felt better for the knowing. They hadn't truly discussed cover stories, so infrequent was their conversations with other people, but made it even easier to slip into this new sense of normalcy. That the comfortable camaraderie she felt with him as they lounged and ate and talked was something real—something worth pursuing. She had no illusions that it would be simple. His job for one would be difficult should ever the Phantom be caught and he was forced to take another assignment. But she was his first, and perhaps that meant he was not overly attached to the profession yet, and would consider a transfer to a more steady department. She wanted a home life with him. A real one. Not one where he disappeared for months, possibly with other frightened young women who would notice how efficient a protector he would be.

"You are awfully quiet," Erik remarked, placing a small helping of spaghetti on his plate. She didn't take the portion personally. His frame was so slight that he clearly preferred small meals.

"Sorry. Just thinking, I guess."

Erik abandoned the pretence of eating and replaced his fork upon the table, the better to study her, she supposed. "About?"

She smiled, somewhat grimly. "Us."

He stiffened at that, although she could readily see he was trying to remain nonchalant. "Oh? Would you care to share any particulars?"

She twirled a long noodle around her fork. "Everyone would think it's odd. We've done everything backwards… almost like we're starting our relationship in the middle."

Erik sat back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. "I fear I do not understand your meaning."

Christine sighed. "We live together. I wear your ring," _and almost wish it was real,_ she thought but did not add. "But we don't really know each other yet. And I guess… people do it differently for a reason, right? They date for a long time, then marry."

" _People_ frequently divorce," he reminded her. That was certainly true, though the thought made her rather sad.

"I don't want to mess things up by moving too fast."

Erik was quiet for a long while, simply watching her carefully until she sought the distraction of eating her dinner. It was good, despite the store they'd found not carrying her usual preferences, and she'd feel better if Erik was eating too.

"We have limited options, Christine. It is not safe for you to live on your own. But if you would prefer, we may… no longer consider ourselves romantically involved until such a time when I may court you properly."

She'd considered it. How to broach the subject without hurting him or making him think she'd regretted anything that had been between them. But to hear him voice it… to actually suggest that they carry on as if their feelings were not real, didn't matter…

"Is that what you want?" She prayed he'd say no, feeling stupid for even bringing up the subject to begin with.

Erik shook his head. "You do not wish to hear my true preference."

This time, she was the one to study him for any clue as to his thoughts. "Why?"

His lips thinned, and he regarded her carefully. She tried to show interest instead of trepidation, and it must have worked for he answered her.

"For if I had my wish, we would already be wed."

* * *

Sooo... major uh oh... that was a little bit blunt, Erik! Ask a girl on a date first, otherwise she's prone to bolting!

How do you think Christine will react? Any bets?


	19. Chapter 19

I was feeling a little contrary today and almost didn't post but... guilt. It's a powerful thing. So here ya go! Let's have the start of a reaction, shaaaaaaaaalll we?

Onward!

* * *

xix

He should not have said anything. That much was obvious. She stared blankly at him, her mouth slightly open, and he cursed his forwardness. She had already stated she feared that pursuing their relationship too hastily would end it prematurely, and now he had suggested they enter matrimony rather than adopt a more sedate pace.

But he had meant it.

And he was so very tired of lying to Christine.

Her eyes were wide, her dinner seemingly forgotten as she stared at him. "Do you mean that?"

He was becoming no stranger to guilt. Not since he met her. At every turn he had made mistakes, had acted rashly and thoughtlessly—two attributes that he never considered would once so aptly describe him. But in this, he knew it was true, even as his conscience, what was left of it, told him that he could not even begin to consider it. Not until she knew the truth. If she chose him, as remarkable and unlikely as that could possibly be, he could not bear the thought of her ever regretting it. If he ever had the privilege of calling her his wife, he did not think it was within his power to let her go.

And if she knew he was the man in her nightmares, the one who had murdered a man in front of her, she very well might wish to leave.

Yet still, he could not lie. "That is my wish, yes."

He waited to see her reaction, perhaps looking for a glimmer of encouragement that she was not wholly adverse to the notion of becoming his bride. She swallowed thickly and took a sip of her water before she looked at him again. "Is this a proposal?"

He smiled grimly. "No. I promised you a diamond and an offer from a man you love. You have not yet indicated that either would be welcome."

She fiddled with her napkin, and he wondered if this would now be the part where she told him she was ending whatever relationship between them had begun. His heart ached at the thought of losing her, a little voice reminding him that she was completely at his mercy. He could do anything to her—tie her up, keep her with him, and she was completely lacking in the strength necessary to rebuff him.

He recoiled from such thoughts.

He had done enough to her. She had felt enough fear without him adding to it with his lack of self-control, even if it was tempting to consider. She could be his boon for his years of suffering. His reward for enduring all his torments.

Yet it would mean nothing if she looked at him with hatred. With loathing. He could imagine nothing worse than that.

And so he awaited her reaction, to tell him if his hopes were unfounded, all the while preparing himself to hear her gentle words of rejection.

Only for her to shock him all the more. "Do you? Love me that is?"

He had not thought the words required stating. "I do," he confirmed, finding the turn in the conversation an odd one. Why did she not simply rebuff him quickly? It was difficult to maintain his composure, to keep from flinging himself at her feet and begging her to issue him one scrap of happiness in the dark, terrible world he had known since his unfortunate birth.

But he remained in his chair, sitting as passively as he could manage. He would not pressure her. He would not threaten or bribe or cause her any undue distress. He simply would not.

He did so hate her tears.

"Enough to marry me?"

"Yes," he said earnestly. There was no question of that. Of all the things he doubted—whether or not she could love _him_ , be satisfied with him—his love for her was not among them.

But enough to risk telling her the truth?

He did not welcome that particular thought. Not at all. He wished that he could embrace those parts of his soul that did not require such honesty. That their relationship could withstand a few deceptions, so long as it kept her happy and with him.

But perhaps that was impossible. Perhaps that was the part of his soul that still held some measure of goodness to it. The very same that loved her, knew that to keep pretending would be an even more terrible agony. That every touch, every kiss, every time she allowed him to make love to her— _if_ she ever allowed such a thing, which was too incredible a notion to dwell on for long—would tear a little more at his resolve. Would linger in his mind until, mocking him that if she knew who he truly was, she would push him away in terror. Would run from him and never consider coming back.

And how could he live with himself if he took away that choice from her?

"Yet there are things you should know before you agree. If you wish to agree."

Her head tilted slightly as she continued to look at him. "What kind of things?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but a vibration in his pocket distracted him. He withdrew the phone quickly. If it had been anyone but the Daroga he would have refused to answer, but if he had called to confirm the Shah's involvement...

Christine's safety was paramount.

"It is the detective," he told her apologetically. "He may have news."

Christine nodded, picking up her fork with a disappointed expression.

His lips curled downward at the sight. He did not like for her to be unhappy.

He answered the call, simply to keep it from buzzing, though before he spoke, he rose, coming closer to Christine and allowing his thumb to brush against her cheekbone. "I shall only be a moment. Then we may resume our conversation."

She smiled then, a bit too thinly, her eyes too troubled and confused, but he sighed, turning away and putting the phone to his ear. "And here I had begun to suspect you had forgotten all about me."

He strode down the hallway to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He would tell her, explain things to her, but not when he could not give her his full attention and do so properly. Hearing half a conversation would only further her confusion and worry her more.

It was a testament to the seriousness of the situation when Nadir did not acknowledge Erik's rude greeting. "He isn't in Europe. He came back to the States two months ago, though his whereabouts are currently unknown."

Erik paled. He had suspected, of course he had, but to hear it confirmed...

"You are certain?"

The Daroga sighed. "As much as I can be. My contacts were leery, which only confirms it further in my mind. They were safe and comfortable enough when there was an ocean separating them, but now..."

Erik leaned against the wall of his room and released a heavy breath. Back? He had suspected. Even though he had prepared himself for the eventuality, but to know it was true—to know that it was now more than his life that was at risk…

Christine would not suffer for his past. She simply would not.

"Erik? Try not to panic."

Erik released a chuckle, a dry humorous sound. "Might I remind you that you have an entire police force that is interested in seeing that you remain alive. I have no one."

The Daroga was silent for a moment, and Erik tried to collect his tumultuous thoughts.

"Is Christine still with you?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "You imagine I would abandon her somewhere?"

Nadir sighed. "No. I'm trying to understand the situation. Are you somewhere safe?"

He hoped so. He had done what he could to ensure that nothing could lead an investigation to his doorstep. He paid cash whenever possible, and had searched the car thoroughly for any further signs of interference. He had found none, and liked to think that he was observant and clever enough to outwit one of the Shah's other goons.

Yet, he had not been before...

"Come on, Erik, I want to help you. Help her. I can only do that if you let me."

Erik scowled. "And what is the nature of that help? I return to your precious city, you put her into protective custody—brilliantly done before; might I be the first to congratulate you—while I find my safety in the confines of a prison cell? That is hardly incentive to allow for your help."

The Daroga huffed out an annoyed breath. "You think very little of me."

"Do you deny investigating me?"

"You were still murdering people, Erik! I swore when I got you out that I would start fresh. I was going to be a good cop, this time. No bribes. No corruption. Just clean police work. And I _thought_ you were going to do the same."

Erik's lips pressed into a thin line. "Buquet was an unfortunate necessity. I do not know why you felt the need to show Christine some of my older work, nor why such an _esteemed_ ," perhaps he said that with a bit too much mockery, "officer is so concerned with cold cases. You know perfectly well who committed those, and that I had little interest in continuing."

"Erik," the Daroga began, his tone suddenly careful. "Those weren't cold cases. There have been three murders in the past six months. And I thought..."

Typical.

"You thought you already knew the answer before you fully had a grasp on the problem," Erik could not quite keep the disgust from his voice. "It would appear you have another man to search for, Daroga, not just me. Not that I do not thoroughly enjoy your unjust accusations at every turn..."

Nadir grew very quiet, and Erik was quite ready to disconnect the call entirely. Everyone presumed the worst of him. They always had. He was ugly, so he was beyond kindness. He certainly would not give it, so he was unworthy of receiving it in return. Except, as a small boy, he had longed for it so. He would watch other children trudging along on their way to school, a mother hovering nearby as she watched over them, giving the pretense of independence while maintaining her care and attention.

Later, when trapped in the confines of his cell, his _display_ , he had seen families together as they perused the exhibit. Not all were cruel to him—usually older teenagers who had ventured to the carnival unaccompanied were the very worst. But the families...he had longed for one of his own. For one to _see_ him, and to invite him to join them.

He had kindness in him. And goodness.

Until it had been buried away with too many beatings, too much hunger, too much despair.

The Shah had given him hope, and that was the cruelest thing of all.

His men had freed him one night, had promised him a different life, a better life, and though wary, he had almost believed them. They had driven him to a fine home, grander and more luxurious than any he had ever imagined, and allowed him to bathe and dress in real clothes, informing him that he would soon dine with the Shah to discuss his future.

Because evidently, he would have one. One with food, and luxuries, and hot water. He would not have to beg for a bucket to wash in any longer. He would not have to plead for a moment alone—even an hour without someone watching him. Nor would he ever again be forced to endure his head being plunged into the icy offering until his lungs burned and he regretted ever having asked for it to begin with, his captor cruelly laughing at his plight. He would have real clothes too—ones that would no longer consist of rags so old they were nearly disintegrating each day he was forced to wear.

"A corpse such as you wouldn't have pretty clothes," his captor had sneered at him when first he had been sold into the fair.

And rather than be naked when the throngs of people passed his cage, Erik had donned them.

And hatred had grown within him.

And settled there.

Until he had grown tired. So very tired. He knew the absurdity of crafting a home beneath an opera house. But it was the promise of privacy. Of dignity that could only be assured with solitude. To be free of his masters, those past and any who would claim to be in future. To be close to something beautiful, to the music that had so enriched him when first he had discovered it, it all seemed a perfect solution.

And then he had found Christine. An intriguing girl, he had thought in a distant sort of way. He had...wondered about her. He would never claim to have loved her when first he had decided to take her away with him. It was a solution to a problem. But now...

He had left her contemplating the possibility of _more_ with him, and though he was nervous, though it terrified him to think he would have to divulge so much of his pain and history... if she consented to be his, it would make it worth every harrowing moment.

"I'm sorry," Nadir said at last. "You're right. I should have been more objective. Are you saying... are you saying you've killed no one since I..." Freed him? Released him? Both suggested a debt that Erik was all too aware of. And he resented it.

"Perhaps. Though I should think you would appreciate that if I had committed such a misdeed, I would have the good sense to hide the body so that you should never find it."

"You didn't with Buquet."

Erik's lips thinned. "Might I remind you, there was a bit of an interruption."

"True." Nadir was fiddling with something, the tapping suggesting a pen. Was he taking notes? "What do you intend to do?"

That was the crux of it. Planning was in his nature. During his respective captivities, he had always fantasized about escape. The manner, the mode... how many deaths would be necessary in the process and the means in which to implement them. But lately his thoughts were consumed with _other_ pursuits—they had been since this entire venture began. Christine was a distraction. A lovely, wonderful one, but a hindrance nonetheless. Yet he could not muster even the pretense of minding.

Except now, when he needed to think, to _plan_... all he could think of was the sweet girl waiting in the dining room.

"I shall do what is necessary." As he had always done. Especially since now he fought for more than his own life. He fought for Christine's.

"I still think you should come back. Before you start up again, I know you think it's inadequate, but we really can keep Christine safe. And... I won't arrest you. I probably should, but..." He groaned in frustration. "I almost believe that you didn't kill these men. And I don't want to see you in lockup while I sort it all out."

"How generous."

"I'm trying here, Erik. I want to help. I want to believe that I didn't make a mistake all those years ago by helping you escape. What you did with Christine was still very wrong, though, and I think you should seriously consider bringing her home. Don't keep her a prisoner. Surely even you can see how cruel that is."

"No, Daroga," he answered, his voice dripping with unconcealed sarcasm, "I could not possibly."

The man sighed yet again. "So what _are_ you going to do?"

And though it frightened him more than he would ever admit. Though he knew he could lose what tenuous affection had been growing between them, he knew there was only one thing he really _could_ do.

"I am going to go speak with Christine."

* * *

Sooo... Wouldn't be a Phantom story if Nadir didn't interrupt now would it? Foolish man... Who's anxious to get back to Christine and see what Erik has to say? Are you proud of him for actually consulting Christine this time? It's like he loves her or something...


	20. Chapter 20

Work in the morning then a fever in the afternoon meant that I was burrowed under the covers, nary to be heard from again-so I'm sorry I am late in updating! I'm still woefully tired but you're all so sweet to ask about me, so I'm dragging myself to my computer to update.

Who's ready for some Erik backstory? Or I guess a better question... is Christine ready?

Onward!

* * *

xx

Christine finished her plate with little enthusiasm, her mind still going over Erik's words.

He wanted to be married to her.

If he was anyone else, she would think he wasn't being serious. At the theatre, it was well known that men would say a lot of things to the girl they were attempting persuade to go out with them. But with Erik... things were so different. She _believed_ him.

But that did not bring her closer to knowing what she wanted.

She could readily admit, though, that it was tempting. She loved a great many things about him, yet he remained a mystery in so many others. But he seemed to recognize that when he told her that she had to know some details about him before she gave any sort of answers, and she was grateful.

Her parents had been married young and quickly. Many had thought she was pregnant, so speedy was their courtship, but she remembered being tucked into bed, her mama smoothing her hair and telling her how she and her papa had come together.

"My parents were taking me to a show for my birthday."

"Was Papa there?" Christine had asked, though she'd heard the story many times.

Her mama smiled, tapping her nose gently. "Hush now, Christine, or how shall I tell you the story?"

Chastened, Christine nestled more fully under the covers, ready to listen.

"I was so excited. I got all dressed up in a new dress, and your grandparents and I went out to a lovely dinner beforehand. The theatre was beautiful, so grand and stately, and the music was wonderful." Her eyes looked so dreamy, her smile so soft, and Christine hoped that someday her own love story would be as magical.

"But where was Papa?" she prompted, hoping Mama wouldn't mind.

"When it was over, I had to use the restroom, and my parents were going to get the car, so I was to meet them out front. But there were a lot of people and I got lost."

Christine gasped excitedly. This part was always her favorite. "Were you scared?"

Her mama smiled. "A little," she confessed. "But then a young, handsome violinist came to my rescue."

"Was it Papa?"

"Of course it was your papa!" a voice from the doorway confirmed in mock outrage. "Who else would be able to steal your mama's heart?"

"No one!" Christine exclaimed, just as she always did.

And no one ever had.

But even love of the sincerest sort could not persuade cancer not to form.

But in their years together, no one could doubt their love for one another. For her.

And soon the questions about their hasty marriage stopped. And Christine at least would not have to worry about those—not when she saw so few people in her everyday existence now.

She stood and began to clear the dishes, extinguishing the candles quickly. So much for her romantic dinner. But still, it had ended in what could be construed as a marriage proposal, so perhaps it was not a total loss. She smiled grimly at the thought.

Christine eyed Erik's plate rather dubiously. She didn't imagine he'd return to it, he seemed to eat as a courtesy to her rather than for himself, but still, she covered it in plastic wrap and tucked it in the fridge before beginning to clean up the rest of the kitchen. A part of her wanted to eavesdrop on Erik's conversation with the detective, but she also appreciated the time to collect her thoughts.

"Christine?"

Erik stood in the doorway, watching her, and she stopped scrubbing the pot. "I didn't hear you come in." Not surprising since the water was running. "Any news?" He nodded his head, though he did not elaborate further. "Is it that bad?"

"It has... implications that would indicate that it could be."

Christine shuddered and fiddled with her rubber glove. Erik had suggested she buy them if she was insisting on doing the hand washing herself, and she had wanted to kiss him for his thoughtfulness. Now, all her fears were returning, and she wished Detective Nadir had waited until tomorrow to call.

"Are we leaving?"

She didn't want to. She liked this house. The décor was decidedly beachy, with the white woodwork and large windows that overlooked the water. But there was a warmth and coziness to it as well that she appreciated. It did not seem particularly _Erik_ , but he had never complained about the airiness of the home. She hoped he was not merely putting up with it for her sake. She wanted him to be comfortable too.

Though if his choices in clothing were any suggestion, his tastes would be decidedly darker and more masculine. Perhaps even cave-like.

"Not tonight." She nodded, still fiddling with the glove. "Christine, will you please join me in the living room? We have things to discuss."

The knot of dread in her stomach clenched all the more, and she suddenly wished she'd abandoned her dinner as Erik had.

She followed behind him obediently, settling on the couch and tucking her legs up beneath her. Erik sat to her right in a chair, though he made sure he could face her properly.

"Are you frightened?" he asked presently, and there was no denying she was.

"Yes," she affirmed. "I don't want him to find me."

Erik looked at her oddly for a moment, before speaking once again. "I should begin by saying that you are in no immediate danger. I do not have reason to believe that any person shall be battering down the doors in the middle of the night, so in that at least you might rest easy."

What had her life become that she did genuinely believe that might be a possibility?

"Okay," she confirmed in a quiet voice. She wasn't going to overreact. And she most certainly was not going to _cry_. She'd had quite enough of that.

"You should also know that we do not believe it is currently the Phantom, as you know him, who left the note for you and wishes you harm."

Christine glanced up at him sharply. "What?" Her mind reeled. "So... it was just a prank then? The letter, I mean, not the…" She swallowed. "The murder."

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he regarded her. "No. Simply that... Detective Nadir has been given reason to believe that it might be a man from my past. And that you are not their primary concern."

She had not been expecting that. Not at all.

And she didn't know how to feel about it.

"Are you... are you in a lot of danger?"

His hesitation to answer did nothing to quell her fear for him. "Our history is not... an amiable one."

Christine bit her lip, not sure how to prompt for more information when her questions were so disjointed. She wanted to quiz him on their current circumstances—was he sure they shouldn't move? Would it be better that they return home? And how did he feel about this new development? For so long she harbored guilt that Erik would end up being hurt because he had the misfortune of being assigned to her, but if this man was actually after him...

She had worried that Erik was resentful of her. But as she considered it, thought about asking him if it was safe for her to return to her life before and leave him to his troubles, she knew she would never do so. For that would leave him all alone, just as she would have been if he had done the same. And the thought of being without him, of someone hurting him, killing him while she simply went about her own life…

It was a horrible thought.

Who was this man, that made Erik seem so sad, yet so very angry?

"Who is he?"

It mattered. Maybe he wished it didn't, but it did. He claimed she was the first person he'd ever protected as a marshal, so it seemed unlikely that he was a disgruntled would-be murderer, seeking revenge when his target was taken from him. But even now, she knew so little about such things.

Erik seemed reluctant to talk, and he suddenly felt so far away. Whatever it was, it appeared as though it would be painful, and she knew she'd rather have someone comfort her through it rather than have to sit stiffly in a chair being stared at. She patted the seat next to her in welcome. "Would you rather sit here and tell me?"

Erik hesitated. His eyes clearly revealed his preference, but still he kept himself from coming to her. "When you know what I have to say, you may not want me so close."

That was not an encouraging thought. But still, he looked miserable, and she didn't like that. Not at all.

"Then if it comes to that, I'll move to the chair myself, okay?"

Erik sighed, but obliged. They had yet to sit here together, their house still new to them, yet full of promise for what it might become. She'd hoped after dinner they could watch a movie. She'd found a popcorn maker under the stove, and had plans to make some—the only thing missing from having such nights at the hotel. Erik didn't seem the sort to indulge, but he had changed a great deal in the time she'd known him. He relaxed more, smiled more. And she was glad of it.

She nestled a bit closer, not liking the distance between them, not if they were to talk of heavy matters.

"I do not know where to begin," he confessed, somewhat abashedly.

Christine reached out and tucked his hand between both of hers. "When did you first meet him?"

Erik stared down at their entwined appendages, and she stroked it softly with her thumb in encouragement. "I do not know the precise date. Time held little relevance then."

Christine refused to grow frustrated. This was clearly difficult for him, even as she wished he would simply speak plainly. "Okay, so what's his name?" Surely that would be easy to answer.

"Most know him as 'the Shah'." He waited, evidently trying to ascertain if the title meant anything to her. It didn't, beyond the typical use as a man of importance in foreign lands. A lord. A king.

But that didn't mean she knew any such person herself.

"He had a true name, I am certain, but those who worked for him were never allowed to use it. It showed deference, I suppose."

"So you were an employee. What sort of company did he have?"

Erik smiled at her, a sad sort of indulgent thing that made her feel silly for asking.

"He had many fronts for his business operations, but I worked at none of them. I was a... guest in his home, in the beginning. He had taken his son to a traveling fair and... noticed me there. The boy took an interest and I was... procured."

Christine's eyes widened. "He kidnapped you? How old were you?"

It was difficult to picture Erik working in a circus-like environment. Everything about him was perfectly maintained, his suits crisp and tailored to his emaciated frame. He did not at all seem a performer.

"You cannot kidnap the willing, Christine," Erik told her gently. She relaxed somewhat at that, though she knew she shouldn't. The seriousness of his tone suggested that this did not hold a happy outcome. "I am not certain of my age, either. Not yet a man, I suppose. I had been given to them as a boy, you see, and the years tended to muddle with time."

Given?

Her stomach clenched. "Sold?"

Erik nodded almost imperceptibly. "I told you that I had no true mother. She preferred money to my company."

She couldn't help it. She abandoned Erik's hand in favor of wrapping herself about his arm, hugging it to her. "Were they at least somewhat kind to you?" Her papa had taken her to fairs before, and though the people often seemed slightly guarded to outsiders, they were friendly and kindly enough. But maybe the ones who were willing to pay money to a mother in exchange for her child would not be so... At least, not in any ways that mattered.

"Was it... was it very terrible?"

She felt the shudder go through him, belying the casual shrug. "I survived." He snorted, a disgusted sound. "Imagine their surprise when suddenly their _living corpse_ broke free of his cage. A veritable zombie running free in the world at last." His tone was derisive and biting, and her own anger for him simmered.

"That's what they called you?"

His lips thinned at the memory. "That was how I was displayed, yes. Plenty were willing to pay to mock and jeer at the boy with the hideous face."

Christine shook her head, disbelievingly. "Why didn't someone call for help? You were a child!"

He shrugged again. "There were many children there, traveling with their parents. They did odd jobs about the place. Perhaps if I did not hold value as an attraction, I would have been permitted to help. But I made my... displeasure at the arrangement quite well known, so I was not allowed out of my cage."

Christine swallowed, not wanting to picture the horrors he must have suffered. Was it any wonder he expected her to fear him? Spurn him for the face he did not ask for? "And that's when this Shah found you?"

Erik nodded. "I do not recall when he had come. It was... easier when I did not look at the faces of my audience. But his men came and told me they were going to help me. I believed them."

Her heart ached, for the hope that must have kindled. Yet to be abused yet again...

"Then what happened?"

"I was introduced into the household. I quickly realized that it was not as I had hoped. I was not truly _free_ ; I had only exchanged one cage for another."

Unwilling to release his arm, she tried to wipe her tears on her covered shoulder before he could notice, only for Erik to suddenly turn and look at her, a frown upon his face as he smoothed them away with his thumb. "You are crying? You are crying for your Erik?"

She could only nod, her words trapped behind a lump in her throat. "I wanted you to say that he freed you and was kind to you. That you were given a chance to be happy and safe."

His frown deepened. "I am sorry that I cannot do so. I do not wish for you to be unhappy."

Christine cried all the more, for his sweetness, for his care. "Someone should have helped you," she insisted. "It's not right that no one did."

At that, his lips formed a tiny, tenuous smile. "You did," he reminded her. "You are kind and want me to be happy and safe. And you kiss me." There was still a note of amazement in his voice as he recounted that part, and she could not help it. She leaned forward and bestowed him with another, simply because she needed to remind him that it was all true.

He allowed it for a moment before he pulled away, his expression tormented. "I killed for him."

* * *

Sooo... Just putting it all out there, aren't you, Erik? Think that's a good thing? And how do you think Christine is going to react? If I'm up to it, I'll see about getting an early update out as an apology gift for my tardiness...


	21. Chapter 21

Well, I've managed earlier on Thursday! So that's... something. *sigh* So after I was feeling better, my mother announced that her tooth was in excruciating pain which meant trying to fit in her with a dentist and subsequent oral surgeon who happened to be very, very far away and in rush hour traffic... but she's all fixed up now and I'm plying her with oatmeal and mac n' cheese. Those are healing foods, right?

Anyway, enough of that. Onward!

* * *

xxi

Christine froze. "You what?"

"It was not long before he thought to put me to work. He found it… amusing that his enemies should see an Angel of Death during their last moments. A phantom. A specter from their nightmares sent at his master's bidding. I proved… most capable."

Her Erik… a murderer? There was no pride in his voice. No hint that he'd taken pleasure in his profession. If anything he sounded… guarded. Wary. And tired.

"Why? Why would you go along with that?"

Erik wasn't looking at her, his eyes somewhat unfocused as he peered over her shoulder. She doubted he was seeing anything at all except some figment from his memories. "The Shah was not always unkind. He gave me clothes, a room of my own. He gave me books and encouraged me to learn. It was only later that I came to realize he did so for his own sake—for what I would become. It was little tasks at first, and I was… grateful. He seemed to value me, and that was a very new experience. I liked it. Only then… then there was more, and I was taught how to use weaponry, hone my skills into something dangerous. When first he suggested it, it was under the pretence of learning protection for myself. So no one would dare enslave me once again."

Christine had grown cold by the bleak picture Erik described. A boy, not yet a man, desperate for someone to care. To feel as if he mattered. And some sick, twisted person had done just that, teaching, encouraging, persuading, until Erik had learned to do his bidding.

Her stomach roiled imagining how Erik must have felt.

"You didn't think to leave, did you." It was a statement, not a question.

"No," he confirmed as he blinked, finally seeming to see her properly. "Not for a long while. I was respected, both by the Shah and by his men. It was… intoxicating."

"What changed?"

Something must have. He never said that he enjoyed the killing. Even in her own experiences with him, she could readily recognize his desire to please. And that could so easily be manipulated, turned into something evil.

Erik had become a weapon for this _Shah._ He bore some measure of responsibility, of course he did, but he was so damaged, a boy longing for someone to care for him, to think that he was _worth_ caring for…

Erik hesitated, but seemed to force himself to continue. "I showed an aptitude for design and engineering." She must have shown some surprise at that, for he quickly explained further. "I had little formal education in my earliest years, but I was left alone frequently and I liked to tinker. Take things apart and learn how they functioned. When at last I was given the means to learn properly, I proved… more than adept."

He was being modest, his eyes saying more than he managed to convey with his words. There was a spark of genuine enthusiasm when he mentioned his intelligence, and the magnitude of the situation was not lost upon her.

"What did he want you to do?"

Erik was silent for a moment, yet Christine could not bring herself to prompt him to speak, nor coax him with more of her touches. After he had broken their kiss, he had slid a little away from her, and she could not seem to bridge the gap. Not when her thoughts were all a jumble.

But at last, he spoke again. "It was one thing to kill. To use my creativity as a means to make it appear accidental, to protect myself from investigation. But as things progressed, the Shah became more... bloodthirsty. He wanted my ingenuity to be used to inflict more pain, more torment before my victims passed. He had commissioned a torture chamber. Something to impress his new mistress, I believe. I even began drawing up the plans. But discussing it with them, seeing the malevolent gleam in their eyes when I told them of what exposure would do to the human body..."

It was getting to be too much. When he had said there were things to speak of, she had never imagined this. But to run from the room, to hide away until she could gather her thoughts—it would hurt him. And even now, she did not want to do that.

"So you refused?"

"In a way. I delayed the project as much as I could, but the Shah grew frustrated by the delay. Evidently his mistress had a few schoolmates she was looking forward to taking revenge from, and I was postponing her gratification." His tone suggested his contempt for the woman and her lover, and for that at least she was grateful.

It meant her Erik was not totally depraved. Yet she knew that already, didn't she? Not when his treatment of her was so careful and gentle, as if he was afraid that he might hurt her simply by being near.

"How did you finally get away then?"

Erik's hand moved a little closer to her on the couch, as if silently seeking approval for being there. He was a gentleman in all things, even now.

She took his hand in hers, looking at it closely.

He didn't wear his gloves all the time now. At the moment, his skin was bare, and although it was particularly long-fingered—too thin as was all of him—it seemed perfectly ordinary. Nothing suggested that it was an instrument of murder, that it had been manipulated and abused into acquiescing to a sadist's demands.

For there was nothing else that he could have been. Not if the thought of torturing an innocent person filled him with such delights.

"The Daroga," Erik began. She had not expected that. Not at all. He quickly corrected himself, however, though she remembered how he liked to refer to the man in charge of her case.

"Detective Nadir had business with the Shah and... found me. The luxuries I had become accustomed to had been stripped away, though he promised to return them when the chamber was complete. I found that I rather liked the dark of the basement. It was dreary of course, and cold, and he typically kept the door locked unless I was overseeing the work, but few people bothered me there. The solitude was welcome since I had become disillusioned to the nature of the Shah and his men. They were no different from my captors in the fair. I did not matter as a person, as a man. It was only my performance that they sought to extract from me."

She gave his hand a little squeeze, her thoughts even more disordered. "So Detective Nadir... he had business there? Like... police business?"

Erik smiled wryly. "No, sweet Christine. At the time he was not so reputable as he claims to be now. He was paid to ensure that, should any of the Shah's men be arrested, there was a friend to them in the department."

Christine sank back against the couch cushions. "But he got you out? And you... you didn't kill people anymore?"

She prayed that he confirmed that. She needed to know that the man she had come to love had not continued when at last he was free.

For no matter what he said, she knew that this _Shah_ had taken great care to groom Erik into what he had become. And her poor, unhappy Erik had been willing to do a great deal just so one person would approve of him.

And even through it all, her heart ached for him.

Though it sank at his brief hesitation. "There was... one man. He was under the Shah's employ and discovered where I lived. He threatened to reveal my new identity, my new dwelling if I did not pay him an exorbitant amount. I did not... respond well. He had other faults," he hastened to assure her. "The dancers were a little afraid of him. He was always too friendly, too quick to touch. One girl was even gathering her courage to report him to the managers after a particularly nasty incident."

He was looking at her strangely. Almost meaningfully. As if there was more to what he was saying than was within his words alone. She tried to steady her thoughts enough to catch the implication of his words, but everything flitted and whirled too quickly in her mind to think through anything properly.

Until with startling clarity, she suddenly knew.

And all she could do was stare at him, with not the slightest idea of what to say.

Erik knew the moment she finally understood what he was saying. That the man she had known, the Phantom she had feared and the man who loved her so completely were one and the same. Her eyes widened and her hand grew rigid around his, and this time he was the one to bring his other to coax and soothe, even as he told himself he should release her completely. If ever there was a reason, now would be the time for her to run from him.

He wished he could take it all back. Every bit of it. He would have allowed the Shah's minions to release him from his cage and he would have run. He would have created a life of his own somehow. He could barely read at that point, but he was clever and he would have found a way.

But the promises he'd been made, the life the Shah presented to him...

All of it meant nothing, _had_ meant nothing, especially when he now faced the possibility of losing Christine entirely.

She took a shuddering breath and looked at him, her eyes searching his for what, he did not know. But he hoped she could see that he loved her. For that was what mattered most.

He had not loved, before her. Not truly. In the beginning, he had loved the woman who had birthed him. Erik had tried to beg for her to do the same, promising to be good and anything at all that she could want, if only she would bestow some measure of affection.

She had not.

The Shah had been much the same, though he had not realized it at the time. His years with the fair had made him wary and cautious, but still the man had managed to make his approval _matter_ to Erik, only for that to prove the most disastrous for the state of Erik's soul.

Until, when Nadir had come and offered to help him, Erik had accepted most readily. But he did not make the mistake of trusting his would-be rescuer again. Not when that had been such a mistake—one that still filled him with regret. They were not _friends._

But Christine was.

Or had been.

He did not know what she would allow them to be now.

"Were you ever going to hurt me?"

She said it so quietly, he almost thought she had not meant for him to hear.

But he did.

And that he could answer most sincerely.

"Never."

She lost some of the tension in her shoulders. "And you're sorry? Truly sorry for everything?"

For everything?

He had done well at justifying it over the years. It made it all more bearable when the guilt and knowledge of the severity of his monstrosity threatened to overwhelm him. But even he knew that an action only had to be justified to oneself if a conscience deemed it to be wrong.

"I am."

Christine nodded, still looking a little distant as she stood. He followed suit, leery and unsure of what she intended to do now. He would not even be surprised if she slipped into her room and began to pack, demanding that he return her home.

But instead she hugged him close, her head resting against his chest that he was becoming to view as _her_ spot. It felt so right for her to settle there.

Only, he hoped this was not her way of saying goodbye.

He held her all the closer at the thought, the uncertainty of what was to come.

For her to surprise him yet again.

"I'm going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?"

His dearest Christine.

* * *

Sooo... to those that question her sanity at this point, she's not... just okay with everything. She wants to re-centre and what better way to do that than tea? Speaking of which... I think I could use another cup...


	22. Chapter 22

I'm still feeling poorly... and it's getting very tiresome. But I shall continue to plod on because... well... it's very depressing just lying there feeling poorly.

So... this segment may seem short, but my deviousness wanted it even shorter so... I'll just hush up and let you read.

Onward!

* * *

xxii

Making tea proved a much needed distraction. Waiting patiently as the water boiled. Placing just the right amount of sugar into the festive mugs, evidently leftover from the previous Christmas. It was a ritual Christine knew well, and it was a comfort while her emotions were still so strange.

She did not know what to think about much of anything. The fear that she expected at Erik's revelation did not come, and she briefly wondered if there was something terribly wrong with her for that. But... she knew him now. And when he told her that he wished her no harm, even in that moment when she was so certain that the masked man was approaching her with the full intention of killing her...

She believed him.

He said he loved her.

Yet he'd lied to her.

She felt silly and stupid and foolish now for having believed he was a marshal. A flash of a badge had been enough to convince her. But Erik had never been cruel. Never had he threatened or cajoled.

But he had not needed to. Not when she had believed his every word.

She poured the boiling water over the tea bags, her favorite brand so recently purchased from the store, Erik in tow. She liked shopping with him. He didn't hover overly much, nor did he sigh impatiently when she considered what she wanted. He even made a few contributions of his own. Nothing seemed to be for himself, but simply things he thought she would enjoy or had seen her select during their travels together.

Did his revelations have to negate all of their sweeter moments? She didn't want it to. Not when she had come to treasure them so very much, had come to hope that perhaps there might actually be something more between them.

She wished her papa was here to speak to.

But he wasn't, and it was only her. Her with her thoughts all a jumble, with her reactions all askew. And the knowledge that she just wanted to go back to pretending with him, at playing house with their lives so simple, their tender feelings beginning to take hold.

Was that so very wrong? Truly?

She poured a dash of cream in her mug and stopped herself from doing the same to his. He liked it black, and likely only consented to the small addition of brown sugar because she'd been so aghast that he liked it so bitter and unaltered.

She went back to the kitchen table, the remnants of their dinner long since cleared away, and handed him his mug. He held it between his hands, evidently intent on watching her more than drinking.

Christine took a long sip, hoping that the familiarity would offer some hidden clarity that she so desperately needed.

It didn't.

"What are you thinking?" Erik asked presently, his voice somewhat small and hesitant.

It didn't seem right to talk things through with him. At least, not until she had a better handle on things. But there was no one else. And in reality... didn't it affect him the most?

"I'm thinking..." she began, hoping the words would flow easily even as her thoughts stuttered and stumbled from one to the next. She sighed. "I guess I'm wondering how things will be different now. If I... if I want them to be different."

Erik nodded, looking down at the dark depths of his cup. "That is your right."

It was nice to have it acknowledged. She waited to feel angry, or perhaps even indignant at his deception. Instead she mostly felt foolish. "What would you want for us to do?"

He smiled, a rueful, sad sort of smile. "That would suggest there is still an _us_."

Christine bit her lip, tracing her forefinger over the warm lip of her mug. She didn't want to lose him. Even through it all, that was what remained. She didn't want to hurt him, and she couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye. Perhaps that made her unwise, or possibly even a bit lacking in good sense, but that did not make it any less true.

"I'd like there to be," she confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. "I can't... I can't say that I understand everything. Or that it was okay. But... I don't think the answer to everything is for me to punish you by lying and saying I don't still have feelings for you. That suddenly I don't love you."

He glanced up sharply at that, his eyes wide. She blushed as she realized what she'd said.

"Does that mean... would I be right in ascertaining that you... do?"

Was there any point in denying it? It had come so naturally, so unexpectedly, that she had hardly recognized it had happened. But now... as she thought of her poor Erik, of his sorrow, of his choices...

"Yes," she murmured softly, wondering if it was a mistake. Hoping that it wasn't.

She did not expect his choked gasp, his facade of calm disappearing before his very eyes. His shoulders hunched, his hands grasping the mug to steady himself even as she stared at him in alarm.

"Erik?"

He shook his head, his body shuddering, and she abandoned her seat to go to him. "Are you okay?"

She knelt beside him, her hand on his arm coaxing him to turn and look at her.

And finally, he did so.

His eyes were bright with tears, and he was sobbing—great, heaving sobs that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. All because she loved him?

"Is that so very terrible?"

She meant to tease, to offer some measure of lightness so he would calm, but instead his eyes widened all the more, and he too abandoned his chair in favor of the floor, pulling her into his arms and clutching so fiercely that there was no possibility of denying him. Not that she ever would.

"You have given me the most precious of gifts, Christine," he whispered when at last he seemed to be able to draw enough breath for words. "I do not deserve it." His voice was a wretched thing, terrible and painful for the hearing of it. And she felt her own tears well in sympathy for all that he so falsely believed.

Christine smoothed her hands over his back, trying to soothe, trying to comfort. "Silly Erik," she hummed softly, trying to infuse all her most tender feelings for him into her tone. "It's about the giving. And you've shown me so much love through all of this, how can I not help but reciprocate?"

"I did not mean to make you," he choked out apologetically, and this time she struggled free enough that she could look at him properly.

"That's not what I meant," she told him firmly.

"I am broken."

That was true enough. If anything, that is what his story had shown her.

"I think I'm a little broken too." And because further words failed her, because every explanation of her feelings seemed so wholly inadequate, she kissed him.

And this time there was no mistaking Erik's enthusiasm as he held her to him, his lips fervent even as his long arms held her close, and she knew that she was completely lost to him.

There was no ignoring his history. He had... he had killed a man in front of her. Even now, the memory was enough to send a tingle of fear through her.

But before, the elusive _Phantom_ was more of a nightmarish figure than a man. A figment of Death come to enact his terrible will over her.

Her Erik was not like that.

He did not frighten her. She could not say in reality that he'd kidnapped her. Deceived her, yes. Made her believe things that were most decidedly untrue. And in that moment, she knew with absolute certainty, if she asked it of him, he would let her go. Go back home, to her little apartment, and her theatre, and her papa's grave, and all the things that had once meant so very much to her.

And still did.

She pulled away slightly, needing to breathe, needing to think, needing to... tell him.

Because she was sure, and it made her heart beat all the faster when faced with the speaking of it.

"I don't need a diamond."

He needed to stop this. Stop kissing her. Stop clutching at her like a brute. His face was still wet with tears, even as her own mingled with his, and he should retrieve a handkerchief for each of them. Or at the very least a disposable tissue.

But his limbs did not seem to want to cooperate, until at last Christine pushed slightly at him, and he withdrew. Her breath was short, but her smile was genuine.

She said something, but her words held little meaning.

"What?"

Her smile faltered a little, and he hated it.

"For my proposal. I don't need a diamond. I just need the man I love to ask me to marry him."

Belatedly he realized their position on the hard tile floor. His knees seemed to know of it most readily, but he could not bring himself to move. Not if moving meant she might redact her statement, might suddenly change her mind.

Or was this some cruel trick?

"Do you mean that? You mean... me?" He had to clarify. Had to know. That she picked him—picked _him_ —was too incredible to believe. He had been so certain that after he had disclosed his past, she would spurn him, would politely tell him that while she did not hate him, there was no possibility of them continuing as a couple.

Yet now she spoke of proposals.

Her hand came and stroked his cheek, and masked though it was, it seemed like he could feel every caress most acutely. "Of course I mean you, Erik. I _love_ you."

"How?" He should not have asked it. Not when she could so easily talk herself out of it. But the words came anyway, and he seemed helpless to stop them. "After all I have done to you? If I had simply allowed you to aid the police, to be their witness, you would not now be in danger. You could have the life you wanted."

He expected her eyes to harden, to withdraw from him as he reminded her of stark reality. But instead she still looked at him softly, tenderly, and it was all he could do to keep his tears from making another appearance. For no one had ever looked at him that way. Not ever.

"That's what I'm asking for. Don't you remember? I wanted a happy home with the man I love. I want the simple things. And you... I think you need those too. Want them. With me?"

Foolish Christine. As if that was even a question.

"Always with you," he managed. He wanted to hold her again, to assure himself that she was there and real, but he refrained.

Instead he helped her to her feet, but stopped her when she made to do the same for him, holding her hands in his.

He had not the least idea of what he was doing—had never once imagined himself in such a position. Christine deserved it all—the diamond she claimed not to require, the romance and fantasy that surely came with girlhood dreams of a proper entreaty from a man worthy of her favor.

Yet she would receive none of it.

Only all the love he could possibly give her. The promise to do his upmost to make her happy.

It seemed a small, insignificant thing, but it was all he had.

He brought her hands forward and kissed them, trying futilely to find some eloquent words that would do this moment justice.

But instead he could only supply what came to him. "I am forever yours, Christine. From that very first moment. Will you… will you be my wife?"

Never did he think anyone would agree to be his. But then, he had never known his Christine before now. And she was crying and she was grinning, and she was tugging at him so she could pull him close, all the while murmuring, "Yes."

It was strange, but glorious, this business of being wanted.

* * *

Sooo... we have a kiss and a proposal and a yes! Too soon? I dare you to say that to Erik... Actually, no, I don't wish that inevitable harm that would follow upon any one of you sooo... Congrats, Erik! Everyone is thrilled for you! *tremulous smile*


	23. Chapter 23

Between a general feeling of poorliness, helping my mother redo her bathroom, and still trying to get work and words done, the days are going by too fast and before I know it, I'm behind in everything with no energy left to do... anything. (In between changing her mind with paint colours, my mother is also informing me that my diet has been abysmal and that explains everything. "You need to eat more than tea and toast." "But why?!")

Anyway. I don't even know at this point if I'm late posting this (what day is it?) but here we go! Any guesses what happens this chapter?

Onward!

* * *

xxiii

"I will still get you a diamond," he promised her. She should have something beautiful adorning her finger. Just as he hoped she would insist they find him a ring of his own—something that would show the world that someone had claimed him as husband, even as he wished to show that she was well cared for. Well loved.

She would be making enough sacrifices to be his bride; he would not add to her disappointments unnecessarily.

"When will we have the wedding?"

She was still happily nestled against his chest, and a peace settled there to have her so close. He had spoken his truths and been rewarded for them. She had said she valued honesty, but he had not fully believed her. Not until now.

Should he then voice the limitations on certain legalities?

 _Yes_.

For the first time his conscience was quiet as he held her. There was no niggling voice that prodded him with the knowledge that if she knew, she would flee from him. Except she had not. And she would not. Not if he could be truthful.

"I do not have records of my birth. Or my residency. Not any that were not purchased by myself."

Christine pulled away slightly. "Oh. I guess... I guess I don't really either. Not here." She gave him a knowing look, and he wondered if she would someday chastise him more thoroughly for his initial actions with her. "I was told to leave them at my apartment."

Erik shifted, not wanting to spoil things, but knowing that she deserved full enlightenment. "You have new ones, just as you would have in more... traditional witness security. Would... would that suffice?"

He had procured a great many papers before departing with her, preparing for any eventuality. Not all stated they were married. A few sets of documents even suggested they were siblings, though even in the very beginning, he had frowned deeply at that particular set.

Christine had asked him once why he had chosen the west coast. He had given no answer, for he did not think her prepared for the explanation. He had selected them both, for amongst his documentation sat marriage licenses, both completely filled, some not.

He had not requested them from his supplier.

In reality, he rather thought the man had been mocking him.

But when Erik had discovered them, he had been... intrigued. It was doubtful that he would ever be able to secure one from any official channels, not with his history and lack of birth record. But at least with these, he could pretend.

Christine was not quite looking at him, her brow furrowed and thoughtful. "Could we... could we still get married in a church?"

Erik wanted to flinch. To pull away and tell her that he had no place there. But... he was Christine's now. And she said that she had attended services at home, so likely she would decide to do so again in future.

Did he wish to set the precedence that he was unwilling to attend with her?

A part of him gave another emphatic _yes_ , but the other...

Christine was his reason to hope. That things could be different, that _he_ could be different. Better. That maybe, after all this time, God had heard his pain, his anguish, had given him the blessing of this precious girl…

And he would not begin their new life together by disappointing her.

"We may."

He did not know how, or the exact location, but he would try. For her.

And her answering grin made the promise well worth it.

She insisted they beginning planning immediately. Her cheeks had pinked and she had grown shy, still not quite looking at him. "I miss you being close when I go to sleep."

As if she even properly remembered what it was like when they so briefly shared a bed. She had slept so soundly, and he had left before her waking, it likely had been as if he had not been there at all.

But that did not stop the shiver that went through him to know that she evidently, at the very least, had an expectation that they would be sharing a bed after their wedding.

It was a great deal more than he had ever hoped for.

She had asked him to bring his laptop into the living room, and together they scrolled through chapels within the area which might prove sufficient for their nuptials.

Evidently this town was not lacking in churches.

For the most part, he simply rejected the ones with buildings too hideous for words, leaving Christine to select the denomination and potential officiant therein.

Until Christine gave him a proud smile, turning the screen so he could see it properly. "I like this one."

It was a small white chapel, a cheery bell nestled in a tower, the interior all creamy moldings and dark pews. An idyllic little place.

That he most assuredly could see marrying his Christine in.

"I will secure it in the morning." And he would. If Christine was ready, then he was too. Except... "Would you not prefer to wait so you could find a gown?"

She deflated somewhat at that, and he wished he had not spoken, yet she answered him before he could retract the enquiry. "Did you... did you always dream about that? Your bride in a white dress, lifting the veil?"

Erik could not help it. He snorted out a rueful laugh. "I never entertained such fantasies, Christine. Not when I was so certain no woman would ever consent to be my wife."

She took his hand in hers. "I did."

And still, it astonished him. "Yes, you did. And I will gladly wed you in whatever garments would most please you. But I do not want you to forego something important simply because you are marrying me."

Christine sighed and turned, nudging her way until she was pressed against his side, tucking his arm about her as was her wont. He shoved the laptop to the side, not wanting the interference. "You're supposed to take your mother shopping with you."

Erik had not known that. "I see."

"I just... Papa and I had talked about it a little. He had always assured me that he would go with me, when the time came. But he... can't. He can't be there to walk me down the aisle, to put my hand in yours and give his blessing. So I think... I think I'd rather we make it something special. Just for us?"

He lightly traced her arm with his fingertips, and when her head nestled so sweetly against him, he rather thought she was pleased. "I will hold your hand the entire time. I will walk with you and stand with you, and say before all others that you are mine and I am yours. There will be no others for me, Christine. Only you. And I shall promise to love you and care for you until my dying breath." He smiled down at her. His love. "Maybe even longer."

And two days later, Christine in her rain coat and Wellington boots, her red scarf knotted beneath her throat, he did precisely that.

And they were married.

Christine slid Erik's new ring upon his finger, feeling anxious and perhaps a little uncertain.

But more than that, _happy_.

The officiant permitted a kiss, and although she briefly thought that Erik would balk at doing so with a witness, yet he brushed his lips against her so gently that it nearly left her breathless.

It was her husband kissing her.

They had only the church secretary and the gardener as witnesses. And while perhaps the thought of that might once have made her sad, she now only felt a tingle of excitement. It was an adventure. All of this had been. Confusing, and tear-inducing, but enthralling nonetheless.

"Shall we go?"

Erik had warily shaken the pastor's hand, and he seemed to be inching toward the exit. Signing the license had been strange. She'd not had cause to use the new name on her ID, but now... now she supposed that was the name she shared with Erik. It was sad to consider she was forsaking _Daaé_ —the name she had always known and cherished as it kept her close to her father. But as Erik had assured her, he'd held many names in his lifetime, and there was no need for her to be uneasy. The vows she made today were just as valid, no matter the identities on a sheet of paper. Those were promises for Erik, made before God, and she had meant them all most wholeheartedly.

Christine smiled sadly and gave her own thanks to those present, before reclaiming Erik's hand into her own. He gave it a little squeeze, and she already missed the feel of his skin beneath her fingers, as he'd donned his gloves almost immediately after the ceremony.

She tugged at the offending leather, and Erik smirked down at her in amusement. "Is something amiss, little wife?"

Christine flushed at her new title.

"I'd like to see your ring again. You're already used to seeing one on me."

He halted, pulling her left hand to his own and placing a kiss upon the rings settled there. "Now there are two," he reminded her.

She did not know how much money he'd spent to rush the process to secure her a diamond for her wedding, but he had. Quite a few diamonds in fact. It still mesmerized her when she watched it sparkle and catch the light, the larger center giving way to softly filigreed gold that reminded her of her mother's.

"I think there's a rule against disagreeing on one's wedding day."

Erik rolled his eyes and relented, pulling his glove off and presenting her with his newly uncovered hand. "Satisfied?"

She ran her thumb over the smooth gold, smiling all the while. "Very."

And the way he looked at her, his eyes so full of love and tenderness, she knew that he was equally pleased. Perhaps even more so than she.

"And where would it please you to go, wifely Christine?"

Christine grinned at that. Evidently he would be reminding her of her status quite a lot today.

But she didn't actually know where she wanted to go. They could go share a meal at a local spot. They could go walk down at the beach and watch the waves.

Or...

She swallowed.

"We could... we could go back to the house."

Erik eyed her carefully before he began walking toward the car. "Surely that is not enough of a celebration."

Christine nibbled at her lip. She had... attempted to broach the subject of marital intimacies before with him. He seemed to be deliberately obtuse as to her meaning. "You have made it very clear in your description of a husband, Christine, that I am to hold you frequently. Especially at night." And he would blink at her, waiting for her to expound, while her heart pounded and her cheeks flamed, and she tried to muster the courage to simply press on, asking if he was looking forward to _being_ with her.

Because she was. To share that closeness, to know him better than any other.

Yet the words that would make her meaning all the clearer evaded her, so she had hurried away and buried herself in a book for a while.

He opened her door and helped her in, his fingers lingering a little longer this time about her waist. She leaned forward and kissed him, relishing the way they suddenly tightened about her in his surprise and, hopefully, in his pleasure at her spontaneity. "We're _married_." It still seemed rather incredible.

His eyes crinkled with his answering smile. "We are."

"And... and I think we can come up with something that would make today really special. Back at the house."

She looked at him meaningfully, and Erik's smile faded. Not the reaction she was hoping for. He suddenly looked nervous, and gaze fell from hers. "Put on your seat belt, Christine."

Christine's mouth dropped open as he pulled away, going to his own side and starting the car. Doubt filled her.

"Erik? Do you... do you not want to? With... with me?"

She had accepted that he was a man. Which is why it seemed a little ridiculous to even ask the question. But her Erik was different, and she realized that she had caused harm by not being more direct in her questions before—in having them discuss this at more depth. She had always presumed that her husband would take the lead in these matters. That he would woo and persuade while she took pleasure from his warm attempts at seduction.

But she hadn't married a fantasy. She'd married Erik, and all that entailed.

His grip on the steering wheel was firm, and she took some comfort in seeing the gold band upon his finger. _She_ had put that there. He had been overjoyed at the prospect of it, and she would not begin to doubt things now.

"Do not be absurd, Christine."

She was not going to take this personally. She simply wasn't. But she was going to prod until she received the answers she needed—and only hoped Erik could be equally understanding on that front. "Then what's the matter? I... I want to." She couldn't believe how embarrassing it was to confess that.

Erik glanced at her sharply. She expected a tinge of anger, or maybe frustration. But instead his eyes were filled with pain. "Do you mean that?"

The light turned green and he was forced to turn away, but her heart was already hurting for him. Perhaps she should have waited to speak up until they were home, then she could have comforted him properly and eased him through these difficult conversations. All the while trying to stem her own outpouring of mortification.

"I'm sorry if I hadn't made that clear. I tried to bring it up, to discuss... expectations. But... I guess I lost my nerve."

His mouth was a thin line. "I hold no expectations of you. You need not do more than you desire simply to _please_ me."

His tone held a great deal of distaste, and she could stand their distance no longer. She reached across the middle console and held onto his arm, her head resting against his shoulder. She held him loosely so he could safely maneuver the car, but it felt wrong talking about such intimate things when he felt so far away. "Mama always said marriage was learning about each other, in _all_ things. What they liked, what they didn't, and just... trying your best to make them happy. I want to know you in that way. As… as a wife knows her husband. But only if you want me to."

Erik swallowed, pulling into the drive of their little temporary home and shutting off the car. Christine straightened. He wouldn't quite look at her, instead seeming to stare at the scarf, the one she had carefully washed and pressed after its jaunt in the sea. "I wish to know you, as a husband knows his wife. But…"

"But what?" she prodded gently.

Erik sighed, and when his eyes met hers, they held such sadness, such worry, that it was all she could do to keep still and allow him to speak instead of insinuating herself upon his lap, regardless of the steering wheel.

"What if you are displeased? What if you find me distasteful after all once you have seen? Once you have known? I would rather continue as we have been than for you to come to despise me."

How could she hope to undo years of the abuses that were heaped upon him?

Slowly.

And with care.

So his confidence could build, his assurance in her love for him. Perhaps it had been wrong to suggest they enter into their marriage so completely and all at once, but that did not mean they could not begin to build on their intimacies over time. And that would be good enough for her.

She took his hand, and smoothed her thumb over the bones of his knuckles. "Someday you aren't going to doubt me, Erik. You're going to know that I want you, and to be together... it will be as natural as breathing." She blushed, even to consider it fully. "Maybe it'll be awkward at first, though. Mama warned me about that. But she said practicing was fun, and eventually we'll get it right. And until then, we'll just keep getting to know each other, okay?" She plucked at his coat sleeve, in what she hoped he realized was a playful manner. "Maybe starting with a few less clothes."

* * *

Sooo... who guessed right? Erik really is a fan of those impromptu weddings... I wonder if it's because if he waits too long she'll change her mind... But who liked the wedding? And who thinks they should wait a while or jump straight into the more... interesting bits?

Until next time!


	24. Chapter 24

Aaaand shockingly, the more... intimate chapter gets a longer segment. Funny how that works! And look! I'm not late!

So, quick note for anybody younger, or... yeah. This is your heads up. Somebody decided to change his mind...

Onward!

* * *

xxiv

Erik felt like a fool. Christine was offering to share the most personal of joinings with him, and he had dissuaded her. It was only another reminder of how little he deserved her. She should be with a man that would sweep her into his arms and lavish her with affections until she could not possibly consider that _not_ making love was even an option.

But even knowing that, even telling himself that it was worth the risk, did not assuage his reservations.

"You are too good, Christine."

She shook her head. "No. I want you to be happy. And when we... when we're together, I don't want you worrying that at any moment I'll regret it, that I'm going to think it was all a mistake." She looked at him, her eyes wide and earnest. "I won't, you know. I love you. All of you."

Erik nodded. "And you will not mind terribly if it is awkward and fumbling in the beginning? I have not... I have no experience in these matters."

For some strange reason, Christine relaxed. He eyed her speculatively, and she gave him a rather sheepish smile. "Sorry. I just... I was worried that someone had... maybe tried to hurt you that way. And that's why you were so nervous."

Erik scowled. "As if someone would have wished to."

Christine shook her head. "We're not going to argue about that. I'll just say that I'm glad you were not hurt by that, and that... I'm not unhappy that I'll be your first." Her cheeks had yet to quiet from their initial blush, and Erik reached out and touched the brilliant color gently, and was rewarded with one of her smiles. "Do you begrudge me not having experience either? I might have been more helpful in... making things easier if I had some."

Erik stiffened. "Of course not." Not when it meant that she would be entirely his, in every way. No boy in her past would know the sweetness of her sighs, the way her lips looked after he had kissed her thoroughly, the way her eyes would slowly blink at him as she seemed to return to her senses.

"Good. Then that's settled." She leaned over and brushed her lips against his. "Now I get to do that any time I want," she whispered to him conspiratorially. "You _are_ my husband."

Warmth settled in his chest to know that she evidently felt so much pleasure at such a fact. "I am. To do with as you will, my sweet wife."

She eyed him plaintively for a moment, before kissing him again, her fingers teasing over the seams of his mask. He willed himself not to shy away, not to react negatively to her exploration—all the while highly aware that for the sake of his dignity they would have to retire to the house if she wished to continue.

His heart beat a bit faster at the thought.

Perhaps this would not be so difficult after all. Not when she was pressed close against him, his body obviously willing to surrender to her caresses. If only his mind would quiet, would leave him be so he could enjoy his beauty...

Christine grimaced against his mouth as the console apparently bit into her hip, and that was enough to remind him that they were _not_ ridiculous teenagers who pawed at one another in a vehicle. He would take her inside, and they would... know one another. In whatever capacity felt right in the moment.

"We should go inside," he told her, and he hoped she could see his regret at the necessity. Despite his doubts, his fears, he did not wish for her to feel unwanted. Unloved. He knew the feeling of both, and he most assuredly never wished to subject Christine to such emotions. Not when nothing could be further from the truth. She was everything that was lovely, everything he wished to treasure and adore.

And he did not want her to ever believe otherwise.

And perhaps that meant surrendering his own troubles so he could enter their marriage bed unencumbered. To learn how to give pleasure and to receive it. The former was what troubled him. He wanted to show her that he was capable of caring for her in every regard, that he could learn and perform adequately to her needs. He would be a good husband to her—or at the very least, he would try his best. He had taught himself to read, to draw, to design, to create.

Surely he could learn how to please his Christine.

Hopefully without embarrassing either of them too significantly in the process.

He walked around the car and opened her door, helping her down to the wet pavement below. It was not raining now, but the puddles marring much of the street indicated that the storm had only recently abated. While he would do anything she asked of him, he could not help but be a little grateful she had not requested another sojourn on the beach, the clouds overhead still dark and thick, heavy with moisture.

He kept his hand at her waist, enjoying the feel of her as he guided her toward the front door. If she claimed his kisses as her prize as his bride, then he would take this. The right for his hand to settle against her waist, to draw her close and hold her tight. And because he was so very happy, when they neared the front door and he had settled the key in the deadbolt and twisted it, he went even a bit further so as to draw her fully into his arms as they crossed the threshold.

She was not in a gossamer dress of ivory and tulle. No veil adorned her head. But she was his bride, and in that moment, in the briefest, most tantalizing moment, he felt as any other man bringing his new wife home.

He had meant to take her to the kitchen, giggling and smiling as she was at his treatment of her, thinking at the very least he might make for her a cup of tea.

But instead he found himself heading toward her bedroom. And this time, he did not ask permission before entering. He was her husband, and the way her laughter stopped, the way she looked at him with confusion and, there was no mistaking it, a little bit of hope, he knew of his welcome.

He was grateful that the days had grown longer. Mid afternoon had given way to dusk, the clouds offering an additional shield of light—something he would need to grant him courage for what was to come. He was willing to try, _wanted_ to try, but darkness had become his friend. One could not stare in the dark.

A hand was on his cheek, a reminder that he wore his most normal mask. He waited tensely for her to insist that he remove it. "Would it help you if it stayed? This time?"

His loveliest Christine.

"Yes," he gasped out, his voice low and raspy. He was not nervous. Not exactly. He could not deny how right it felt for her to be in his arms, to have her so near.

Unbelievable, but right.

She nodded, and he was glad, but apparently she felt the need to offer him more assurances. "Just so you know though, it wouldn't make a difference if it was gone. I would still love you. Still want you."

He inclined his head slightly to indicate he had heard her. "I would prefer it remain. For... for this time."

He loved her all the more for saying it did not matter—she would be the same woman he loved if it mattered so very much to her. But the thought of baring both his body and his face, while the room clung to even the smallest semblance of daylight... it proved too great a hurdle to even consider.

He eased her down upon the bed and knelt before her, perhaps hiding a bit as he ducked his head and helped ease off her atrocious boots. They were garish, and had only the slightest practicality to them. And yet his heart softened toward her every time he saw her in them. Her socks were next, and he swallowed thickly as his fingers skimmed the smooth flesh of her calves on their descent. From this moment forward, her insistence upon wearing them would be for warmth alone, not modesty. The thought pleased him. It was safe to be bare with her, for they were one. The officiant had said so, had said it with conviction.

Erik glanced up at Christine to ensure she was well. Her eyes were slightly dark, an expression he was unused to, but that stirred his blood and made it all the more important that he move forward so he could place a kiss upon her waiting lips.

There was nothing quite like the sweet surrender that followed their kisses. The way his soul seemed to sigh, to settle, to urge him to hold her closer, to fuse them together so the moment should never have to end.

And this time, she had made it very clear that she had no objections should he attempt to do so.

They were one.

She was his, and he was hers. And no man would ever put them asunder.

With some regret, he pulled away from her lips, beckoning her to stand. Her breath was a bit shaky, her pupils overwhelming her irises as she seemed to watch him with anticipation for what he would do next.

It made him feel... powerful.

Not in the way he was used to, when the Shah had given him the pretense of authority.

This was... intoxicating.

It made him feel capable, feel wanted, as his fingers drifted first to the tie of her coat, then to each button, as he noted the way her breath hitched as each was undone.

"Why am I the only one being undressed?" Even her voice was different, a little lower, a little breathless, and he relished the hearing of it. That was for _him_. Because of him. And he had very nearly denied them both the joy of experiencing it.

What a fool he was.

"Because I like to look at you, Christine," he murmured softly. The last of the buttons were conquered, and he eased the coat from her shoulders. At any other time he would have taken it to join their other offerings on the coat tree in the entry. But the thought of leaving her in that moment was unbearable.

He quite deliberately allowed it to drop to the floor, and waiting to see if she would protest his carelessness.

She did not.

"You do?" As if she even needed to ask.

"Yes," he breathed, leaning closer in what he hoped would be a pleasing fashion, his arms coming about her as she stepped quite willingly into his arms. In truth, he was peering behind her back to see how her dress was fastened—the nicest she had brought, she had announced shyly when she had emerged from her bedroom that afternoon, adorned for their wedding. It was the palest pink, silky and beautiful, and so perfectly Christine as it both clashed and complimented the boots covering her feet.

She was perfect.

A zipper then. His fingers grasped the little metal pull and eased it downward, waiting for her to protest, for her to tell him that she had changed her mind. Her fingers gripped his coat a little tighter, but she made no move to stop him. Yet the way she clung was interfering with the dress dropping to the floor, and now that he was faced with the prospect of a nearly nude Christine, he very much wished to see it.

He smoothed his hands over her arms until he could extract himself from her hold, never quite releasing her.

Only for her to catch it and hold it to her chest before it could leave her body completely. She was blushing, her eyes somewhat apologetic. And while he thought her absurd—that she could possibly think that a single part of her might be undesirable when at last he was free to peruse all of her—he knew that vulnerability well.

So when she looked at him with those eyes, reached forward and tugged at his coat and whispered, "You too, please," he knew he had to either quit the room entirely, or acquiesce.

He began with his own buttons. She did not stare, not exactly. She... watched. The way his fingers curled around each fastener, the way he at least folded each article before allowing them to join her own clothing upon the floor. He made to sit upon the bed so he could undo his shoes, but Christine shrugged her dress back onto her shoulders, kneeling before him so she could tug at the laces. He was going to pull her upward—tell her quite plainly that she simply must cease in her determination to sit upon the ground. But she succeeded with removing one of his shoes, and he was distracted by her little gasp, her eyes flying up to meet his.

"It seemed appropriate," he muttered quietly, suddenly regretting it.

"You kept them. I... knew you did, but part of me thought you threw them out." She touched the ridiculous sock—the one she had insisted he wear after his interlude in the ocean to retrieve the very scarf that now lay upon her floor—her eyes wide and wondering. "Why are you wearing them?"

He shrugged, even though he knew the answer perfectly well. Honesty. There must be truth between them, here of all places. So instead of his dismissive response, he conjured his willingness for openness. "They meant more than my other pairs. They came from you. They showed your care. Even if they are perfectly ridiculous."

He had not meant to relay the last part and hoped she would not be insulted—she had made them after all. But instead she worked all the more resolutely on his other shoe, before rising to her feet.

And promptly settling in his lap. Her arms were about his neck, her fingers smoothing through the strands of his hair, and his body seemed all the more aware of the intimacy of the position. He swallowed.

"You are the sweetest man," she told him, her voice merely a whisper as if she was confessing some great secret. "You think that you don't deserve me, but you constantly amaze me with your thoughtfulness and care. I'm... I'm very fortunate."

And then she rose, moving to the side of the bed that was apparently her preference, and pulled back the bedding. And with one last glance his direction, a little nervous, a little unsure, she allowed the dress to first pool at her hips, then shimmied it all the way off.

Erik's mouth was dry, and he wanted nothing more than to study her. To learn every curve, to kiss every freckle—to persuade her that the undergarments should most assuredly join the rest of her clothing and no longer occlude the rest of his perusal.

But instead he forced himself to stand, to give her a moment's privacy to become situated, while his own trembling fingers worked on his own clothes. He could not feel her eyes watching him, and he was grateful for the respite. Never did he think he would find himself in this position. But Christine... she made him hope for things. Long for things. And maybe, just maybe, believe that these good and perfect things could be for him.

She had pulled up the sheet to cover herself, and belatedly he realized there were no longer straps pressing into her lovely shoulders. It was an acute awareness of her nakedness that made his steps forward all the more strained. He wanted nearer. Nearer to her.

And then when she raised the sheet, her eyes still a little nervous, but so warm and welcoming all the same—a refuge for him to hide, to join her, to _be_ with her...

There was no question of him refusing her.

Though with long fingers he bade her close her eyes until the very last of his clothing was removed, not quite ready for her to see that particular part of him. It still seemed too unbelievable for words that soon she would be feeling it. Touching it. Surrounding it.

He forced himself to breathe.

He felt a bit awkward, his long frame coming to cover her own beneath the thin, white sheet. He felt all elbows, uncertain if his weight was too much for her, if she would find his presence a bother. But her eyes closed briefly, her smile soft, and soon he knew that all he would very much like, all he was so very sure of, were her kisses.

Only this time there was the strange, foreign, _delicious_ feel of naked flesh rubbing against his, of soft curves and delicate breasts that seemed to react so sweetly when he brushed his slightly too-cold fingers against them.

And never did his Christine seem to think his attentions, his explorations a burden. Every sigh was a balm to his troubled soul, ever muffled whimper when he found which parts seemed to bring her delight, a gift.

And when at last he felt he might burst, when the need for oneness proved too devastating, she was the one urging him closer. "I'm sure, Erik. I promise. I love you."

Who was he to ever refuse her?

Bliss like he had never known, never imagined, nearly overwhelmed him.

And when she stiffened, begged for a moment to adjust, he only felt a moment's regret. Which perhaps later would shame him, but in the moment...

The satisfaction that came from knowing they were truly man and wife, truly married, truly lovers... it made him feel sure enough to lean forward and kiss her all the more, to coax and soothe until she felt ready enough for him to continue.

And he knew love.

And gave love.

And now that he had experienced _making_ love...

His wife was all the more precious. Her compassion had changed him. Had found some hidden part of himself that he had long since denied.

And when it was over, when he lay beside her, holding her close and whispering his love as she fought for breath, her smile so sweet and genuine as she nestled closer to him, he knew that he never could let her go. Knew he would do anything in his power to keep her safe and happy so she would never wish him to.

They would move. He would coax her into a warm bath to further soothe any tender muscles, but for now... now he wanted simply to lay here, to hold her, to know that it was real.

But he must have drifted off to sleep— a shocking reality in its own right—for he awoke with a start some time later, the room fully dark. Christine was still beside him, seeming to cling to him for warmth as the blankets had long since been shoved toward the foot of the bed.

He knew she would be a distraction. Too lovely and tempting to think of other things when she was near.

So belatedly he noticed the shadow move along the wall.

Too slowly did he react to cover her body with his own as the gun was raised.

And too late did he realize that the pain in his neck came from it being fired.

* * *

Sooo... that devolved quickly... Thoughts? I'll just be over here... Hiding...


	25. Chapter 25

Well, I'm updating on time despite a very trying day (I seem to be having a lot of those of late, don't I?) but I'm not sure you're going to thank me for it... not after this...

Onward!

* * *

xxv

Christine didn't know what actually woke her, the feel of Erik's slackened body hitting hers or the strange whooshing sound as something penetrated the blessed respite of the first sleep in her new husband's arms.

Her first inclination was not of fear, but of grumbling annoyance, as she very nearly shifted Erik's body, thinking perhaps that he was unused to a bed-mate and simply had rolled on top of her.

But then the man with the gun stepped forward, and she stiffened with terror.

The man lowered the weapon slightly, though her eyes remained transfixed upon it. It wasn't like Erik's. It was strangely fitted and she had not the least idea of what it was capable of doing.

But she had heard it fire...

She frantically shimmied out from underneath Erik's prone figure, looking for blood, for a wound, for him to show some sign of life. And even in the darkness of the room she could make out the unnatural object protrusion in his neck.

A dart.

Not a bullet then.

But was it poisoned?

Horrified that it might be, she plucked it from his flesh, hating the way it almost clung to his tissue, wishing she could clean and bandage the slight trail of blood that was left behind.

She looked back at their attacker, waiting for the sting to hit her next, but instead the man stepped backward, flicking on the overhead light. He wore a mask—nothing nearly as elaborate as some of Erik's. Black and made of knit, he lacked the grace and elegance of her husband.

Christine glanced up at his eyes, only to find them cold and calculating. She shivered, belatedly realizing she was naked. What only a few hours ago had been deliciously thrilling and exciting, now proved mortifying.

She tugged at the sheet, trying feebly to cover her breasts even as she felt a sob welling in her throat. Should she beg? Plead? She had nothing to offer him. No notion of what would appease him or what brought him here in the first place. So instead she sat silently, waiting.

"I'm going to give you a choice," the man stated, his voice calm yet firm. "You may get up and dress yourself and your husband. But to do that, you need to be calm and not fight me. Or, if you prefer, I'll shoot you as well and take you both naked. What will it be?"

Christine eyed their clothes, wanting them desperately. Should she simply run? She didn't know the neighbors, didn't even know where Erik's phone was to be able to summon help.

And if they were to be taken anywhere... she wanted them dressed. Erik's dignity had been imposed upon enough in his life, and she most certainly did not wish to be looked at. Not when she already felt so mortified that her breasts had been so exposed. She shuddered at the mere thought of it.

"Well?"

She cleared her throat and forced down her rising panic. "I'd like to get dressed."

The man nodded. "Go slowly. Make any moves I don't like and you'll get one of these." He waved the gun at her and she did not mistake his meaning.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she got out of the bed, forcing herself not to rush toward her clothes in an effort to cover herself. She eyed her papa's ring on the bedside table, considering. Before she could think better of it, she grasped it, slipping the chain over her head before she could consider the consequences.

She had worn it for the wedding, but when it came time to disrobe and join Erik in the bed, she removed it. It seemed… wrong to have it near when Erik and she were going to be intimate. It was a thing of comfort, a memory, unnecessary when in her husband's embrace.

But now…

Now she needed it.

She fully believed that this man would keep them both nude on principle had she made any attempt to flee, and though she hated the thought of obeying him, she didn't want to be rendered unconscious. Then she surrendered any possibility of being any help at all to her poor Erik.

Her dress was the easiest to reach, and she hurriedly threw it on, foregoing her bra in favor of efficiency. His gaze lingered on her, and though she could not detect any particular degree of lust, she still felt violated by the entire exchange.

Erik proved more difficult to dress. Slight though he might be, his limbs were uncooperative and the man did not see fit to help her. It seemed so strange, to perform this action given the events only a few hours before. There was no time to savor in the exploration, no time to learn all of his flesh now that there was light enough to do so. She felt no shame as she eased first his underwear, then his trousers over his hips and fastened them up properly. Any other time there might have been a fascination, an intrigue into what fashioned the male sex. It had hurt her, there was no denying it. Even now as she moved there was a vivid ache that reminded her of his entry. But now, as she dressed him, as she sorrowed for what was being robbed from them—those tender moments, those delicate memories that would have secured their newly formed bonds—she was glad that they had done it. Especially when the future was now so uncertain.

When at last Erik was fully clothed, the man came toward her and she flinched backward, wary of him. He tucked the dart gun under his arm and produced a black zip-tie. "Hold out your hands."

Wordlessly, she obeyed.

He was not overly harmful, but nor was he gentle as he bound her wrists, the rigid plastic already biting into the delicate skin and making her wince. She didn't complain. There was something... professional about him that made it all worse. A cool detachment that made him seem even more terrifying. He was a man with a task, and he would not be moved by tears or whispered begging. And though they had discussed it in the past, Christine still did not know even the basics of defense.

She looked at her Erik, prone upon the bed, wishing that he'd waken and tell her what to do.

But he didn't.

While she'd dressed him, she'd ensured he still breathed, her fingers lingering at his throat as she did his buttons, grateful to find a heartbeat, firm and insistent. Her Erik lived. For the moment.

She didn't expect for him to act then. To pull out his gun and shoot a dart into her thigh. She cried out at the pain, her eyes wide and fearful, and he looked down at her with those emotionless eyes, uncaring as she crumpled to the ground.

When next she woke, her head ached and her mouth was dry. There was a persistent thrumming in her ears, and her wrists throbbed painfully along with her pulse. She made to sit up, only to startle when a hand pressed her downward. "What did I say about sudden movements?"

Christine blinked, otherwise freezing. Her kidnapper was seated beside her, a book in his hands. Her chair was reclined, the leather of it something fine and comfortable, yet the windows across from her fully suggested they were on an airplane. Her eyes welled as she noticed Erik, still sleeping and sprawled across what appeared to be a sofa, his own hands and wrists just as bound as her own.

This time she slowly sat forward, wanting to go to him, to see if he was still all right. It didn't make sense that she would wake before he did.

"He's fine, for now. Got another dose once we got on the plane."

"Why didn't I?" Her voice was raspy and nearly a croak, and she wondered how much time had passed. She desperately wanted a glass of water.

"You going to do anything that would make me hurt you?"

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. There was no mistaking that he would if she did not prove compliant.

"He would. But I think you know that."

Christine grimaced. Erik certainly would have. She could already picture his outrage that their little game of pretend, their all too short exchange of marital bliss, had been so cruelly destroyed.

No, not destroyed. That suggested they would not be able to renew it. Delayed. That was all. It simply had to be…

"Can I... can I get some water?"

The man eyed her speculatively for a moment before rising from his seat. Christine glanced over to Erik and decided to risk it, moving from her chair so she could maneuver Erik into a more comfortable position. She straightened out his limbs before sitting on the couch herself, resting his head in her lap.

If her kidnapper was angry at her rearrangement, he said nothing, instead bringing her a bottle of water.

"Thank you," she murmured, not quite looking at him. His eyes unnerved her.

"You should get some more sleep. We've got almost another hour before we land."

Her brain felt a little sluggish still, but the idea of willingly succumbing to sleep wasn't overly appealing. She would stay awake, would watch over her husband. Even if she couldn't do anything, couldn't truly stop this man if he meant either of them harm, it still seemed better to be alert and prepared, just in case.

She took a grateful swallow of water before pouring a little on her finger and wetting Erik's lips. If her mouth felt this dry after only one dose, she hated to think how he would feel after two.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered, smoothing her hand through his hair. She grimaced when her fingers drifted over his mask, almost wishing she had insisted he remove it, though also glad she hadn't. He wouldn't want to be seen like that, not by these people.

How had it all gone so very wrong?

She should be tucked away with him, enjoying their first day, their first night, as a wedded pair. He'd made her feel such things, made her feel so safe and cherished as he'd loved her, his kisses soft and gentle even as he explored her.

"Do you work for the Shah?" she asked, not knowing if it was wrong to speak, but needing to know. That man had tried to ruin her Erik before, and if he did so now...

She did not want to think about what he would have in store for the both of them.

The man continued to stare down at his book.

Christine sighed.

And waited.

And prayed that they would both make it through this alive.

Erik woke with a start. His body ached in ways he had not experienced for years now, his head issuing a thundering reminder of what had transpired, even as his thoughts hastened to catch up. The room was dark, shadowy, and cold. And with a sinking stomach, he recognized it.

His basement room within the Shah's abode.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, suggesting that no other unfortunate soul had been forced to reside there in his absence. But then, with Nadir's insistence, the investigation that followed Erik's _retirement_ pushed the Shah into Europe to avoid prosecution.

Erik should have burned this home.

Movement in the corner of the room had him lurching, especially when he noted the familiar lines of his Christine.

She was laying on a pallet. His, he noted with a grimace. He hurried forward, ignoring his protesting muscles, determined to be nearer to her.

Only for a chain to rattle, preventing him from reaching her fully. Erik eyed the offending article with hatred. This too, was familiar. Chained like a dog when not in use, Erik had filled his days down here with whatever he could imagine. Those days were meant to have been over. And they were most assuredly _never_ supposed to have involved Christine. This chain was shorter than the last, preventing him from walking about the room. And most importantly, going to his wife's side to better ascertain her condition.

In years past, he had learned how to pick the lock on his ankle. The supplies they gave him for whenever he felt the urge to actually work on the cursed torture chamber proved useful, and often he would free himself merely to prove that he could. But the locks became more sophisticated, the Shah's temper quicker, and soon he realized he was simply urging the man to call for his demise.

And what frightened Erik was that such had ceased to seem a terrible thing.

Footsteps on the basement stairs alerted him to an intruder, and he forced himself to calm. Anger would excite, exacerbate, and he could not risk Christine. He did not mind a few blows for himself, but with her near...

He made to straighten his tie, only to belatedly notice its absence. With a sinking realization, he did not even recall how clothes came to be on his person. He glanced down, noting the untucked shirt and wrinkled trousers, and quickly righted as much as he could. He saw evidence of abrasion on his wrists. He must have been bound at some point. He glanced toward Christine and noted the harsh, black tie cutting into the reddened flesh about her wrists.

He scowled, then forced his face into neutrality.

He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, forcing a posture of casual indifference. He was not rattled. He was not afraid.

He could not afford to be.

Already he had failed Christine by not securing their home upon their return from the chapel. Even if he had made the decision to take her to his room instead of hers, there at least was the possibility of him offering her some protection. Instead he had chosen hers. What had meant to offer her some sense of familiarity as together they enjoyed the untried privileges of their marriage bed, proved to be one of his gravest mistakes.

The door of the basement opened, and Christine stirred. He urged her to remain quiet and still, for a moment longer. These people took little pleasure in unconscious individuals. They could not scream.

A masked individual appeared in the doorway. He glanced at Erik briefly before turning to Christine, nudging her with his foot until she groaned.

"Cease troubling the girl," Erik grumbled. He wished to make his tone venomous, to promise the death that would swiftly be supplied once he was free from his bonds. But he could not allow himself to be so rattled. For them to know that their attentions to Christine would cause him the most pain. "Your intended victim is already awake."

The man turned, pulling the crude mask from his face. He was rather unremarkable, aside from the scars that covered a good portion of his right cheek. They did not seem quite consistent with traditional burns, but perhaps those of the chemical variety. Erik merely stared at him steadily. "Well? Shall I be expecting an audience with our master?" Even to his own ears, he detected the bite of bitterness in his tone.

"Soon. He wanted the girl to be awake first."

Fear nibbled at Erik's heart. "For?"

The man looked at him steadily. "You know what for."

Erik closed his eyes. "She does not deserve to be used."

The scarred man shrugged, glancing down at her. "Isn't that the point?"

* * *

Sooo... that doesn't sound too good, now does it? What are your thoughts so far?... beyond wanting to harm a certain writerly person...


	26. Chapter 26

Not exactly an early update, but there's three hours left of Monday according to my clock, so I'll count it as a win!

I know, everything in this story right now seems rather hopeless... not sure this segment will make anybody feel better on that score...

Ahem. Onward!

* * *

xxvi

This time he leaned down and placed a small vile beneath her nose, holding it there until Christine gasped and stirred, lurching away from his closeness. Their abductor corked the bottle before standing once more. "I'll inform him that you both are ready." He leaned down, holding Christine's chin firmly in his hands. Even from his position, Erik could see the tears forming in her eyes. The hatred burned through him. "Will you stay in this room or do I have to find a chain to match your fellow's over there?"

Christine looked over at him, and Erik knew with certainty that the only move she would make would be to come to him. To beg for information, for assurance—when in reality, he had so little to offer.

"Can I go to him?" Her voice was small and unsure, and Erik's heart broke a little just to hear it. She should not be asking permission. She should not be reduced to some quivering girl that had to cower and plead for the smallest mercy. She was his sweet girl, cheerful and joyous, with an atrocious taste in footwear.

And he would see her be so again.

Even if, at the moment, he was uncertain how to bring such a thing about.

The man pulled away before nodding. "You won't get him free. But even if you manage it, it'll only mean punishment for you both. Do you understand?"

Christine's lips thinned as she tried to contain a sob. "Yes."

"Good." The man left, and Christine staggered to her feet. Erik watched with growing anger as her limbs refused to cooperate properly, her attempt to reach him punctuated by numerous stumbles. When at last she was as close enough that his chain would no longer prevent him, he stepped closer and drew her into his arms. "I am so sorry, Christine," he murmured brokenly into her hair. With her hands still bound, Christine could not clutch at him as he knew she wished to, instead her fingers grasping at his shirt as she tried to bury herself as closely to him as she could manage.

"I know you are," she assured, her voice choked with tears. "But I don't blame you. You didn't do this. They did."

In this, Erik did not think he was worthy of her absolution. Not when it was history, his negligence, that allowed this to occur.

"Do you know him? That man? Was he... was he here before?"

Erik smoothed a hand through her hair, hoping that they gave him enough time to calm her somewhat before they were forced upstairs. The Shah relished fear, delighted in weakness...

"No, I do not," Erik murmured. "Perhaps he has taken my place in the Shah's favor. I do not envy him for it."

Christine shuddered and remained huddled against him. His head still ached and when they were not immediately summoned, he allowed them both to slide down to the floor, still holding her close, but at least giving his legs the opportunity to rest a moment longer.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Erik pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know."

They were silent, words unnecessary. He could offer her no true assurances, no promises that they would not be harmed. So instead he simply held her until he heard footsteps once more upon the stairs, though this time there seemed to be more than one set descending into their gloomy cell.

The first man returned, eyeing them both carefully. The second differed greatly, all muscles and girth, and he looked at them both with interest. Erik's lips thinned as he regarded him. A man of his size would be difficult to defeat relying merely on hand combat alone. His Punjab lasso would be far more effective. Put a length of catgut around any man's throat, and they all reacted the same. And inevitably, they all died the same.

"Christine, come over here."

Erik's arms tightened about her, and she glanced between Erik and the first man warily. The man raised a lone eyebrow at her—the first having been destroyed by whatever had maimed him—his expression expectant. "I believe we have had this conversation already. Are you going to force me to hurt you? Hurt him?"

Erik hated the way he spoke to her, hated the way her breath hiccupped into a sob before she placed a kiss upon his covered cheek. "Let me go," she whispered softly. "It's going to happen anyway, and I'm not going to have us hurt just to prove we don't take orders."

Erik very much wanted to protest. To keep her to him where he could at the very least shield her body with his own if it came to withstanding pain or punishment. But already she was wiggling from his lap, was moving away from him and over to the two goons, and he hated that most of all.

He eyed them both with barely concealed malice. "Well? Any instructions for me?"

When Christine was close enough, the first man gripped her tightly about the waist, a short handled knife appearing in his other hand. Christine's eyes widened and she looked at Erik with nothing short of abject terror. "You are going to cooperate. Remain on the ground, and extend your hands."

They could not have picked a more effective means of ensuring his cooperation. Perhaps if he was on his own he would protest, would have made some great stand and fought them all. But when his Christine was used as a bargaining tool...

There truly were no options. Not when she would be the one to bear the scar, shed the blood for his own disobedience.

The burly man came forward and produced a zip tie, similar to the one encircling Christine's delicate wrists. He winced as they were tightly secured but said nothing. Next his shackle was undone, and he was bid to rise and follow them upstairs. "I will not hesitate to hurt her, Erik. I hope you realize that."

He was hurting her enough by holding her so closely when she clearly wanted him nowhere near her. So Erik nodded and acquiesced, ascending the stairs and following quietly as they made their way through the maze that was once the Shah's primary residence.

It had changed little over the years. It was cleaner than the basement room had been, but it did show sign of age and a lack of maintenance. The marble floors once shone with the countless hours of effort that a crew of maids devoted to them. Now they were scuffed and dull, as if many feet had trampled over them, no care shown for their upkeep. Not many of the lights were employed, which to Erik was not a terrible thing. Should the opportunity for escape present itself, shadows would prove a beneficial addition—a thing of shelter should he require them.

He knew which room they came to before the man holding Christine even opened the door. He supposed in the original design, this was meant to be a study— a place for thought and introspection, a home for books and quiet evenings. Instead, the Shah had fashioned it as a means of intimidation. A large desk dominated the room from which the Shah would present judgment, the artwork gory depictions of battles during the Crusades. Beheadings, disembowelments, torture—everything to make the one summoned as uncomfortable as possible with hintings of their potential fates.

And as he stood in that room—his wife held firmly to another man's side, a goon eyeing him challengingly, and his former _master_ seated at that ridiculous desk, Erik knew with absolute certainty, he would see all of these men dead.

"Ah, Erik. It has been a long time, has it not?"

The man—the Shah?—was seated at a magnificently carved desk. He was leaning back casually in his chair, as if the occurrence of a husband and wife being brought to him with hands bound was a common happening. Perhaps to him it was.

Christine fought to keep down another sob. Crying would not accomplish anything. Yet she was so very frightened. And _angry_. For as the way Erik looked at this man, there was no denying that he must be the one that had so damaged her husband. Had twisted his hopes and most basic desires into a weapon. And now they were here, and she wasn't sure that she would be enough to bring him back this time.

Assuming they were not simply killed outright.

She was acutely aware of the knife held firmly against her; another reason she was attempting to control her breathing so a particularly harsh sob would not press the sharpened blade against her vulnerable skin. She wanted to move away, hated to be pressed so intimately against anyone besides Erik, yet to do so would only mean pain.

And she could not risk Erik acting rashly because she was uncomfortable and scared.

"I cannot say that I have missed our association."

The Shah smiled. Perhaps he was a handsome man in the barest sense. But there was an evil in him, a cruelty, that exuded from his every pore and made Christine terribly aware of the danger they were in.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It simply wasn't.

And yet... it was.

"Samuel, do be so good as to bring our lovely new guest into the waiting room. Apparently Erik requires a refresher on manners."

Christine expected Erik to protest, to plead even as his eyes widened and he looked at her with pity. But instead his attention swiveled to the Shah once more, even as Samuel—the man who had abducted them?—pulled her unwilling frame through a panel in the wall, into a sparse room beyond.

"That is not necessary," Erik informed him stiffly, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. "If you desire to punish me, enact your vengeance upon my person. Not hers."

Christine turned as Samuel urged her forward, and to her horror she finally noted the only adornment to the room was an elaborate pulley system, a pair of handcuffs already waiting to hold her fast. Vulnerable.

"Please, don't," she begged, even as Samuel lifted her sore and aching wrists, not even bothering to undo the zip ties before securing the handcuffs. Her gratitude at the slack in the line was short-lived, as Samuel flicked a switch and her arms were pulled painfully taut above her head.

"If you do not fight me, I won't raise it further so you dangle. Be thankful your feet can still support your weight." His true sentiment was clear. He could make all of this much worse for her—as if she was not so fully aware of that fact. Christine shuddered when she realized if she had not cooperated before, she likely would be in this position still fully naked.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She could only see Erik through the doorway, a large piece of glass dominating one wall—the large mirror in the Shah's study? Perhaps it was not a mirror after all.

With the door open, she could still hear them, but she hated being so far, hated what this position meant for her.

"I think it is quite necessary," the Shah assured her husband. "You see, the best way to punish you is to punish her. Didn't I ever tell you, Erik? Love is your greatest weakness."

And with that, he must have pressed a button for an intercom, for his voice echoed through the barren room she occupied.

"Samuel? Bring us a bit of her blood. I think Erik should like to see it."

* * *

Sooo... Things can't get much worse, right? *hides under me covers*


	27. Chapter 27

My mind is completely blanking on anything to say sooooooooo...

Onward!

* * *

xxvii

It took every bit of self-control for him to keep from running to her. He knew how this worked—knew that it was his reactions that would determine her ultimate fate. The Shah was correct about his weakness. It was something so newly acquired, something he now valued above all others. Only to now have it exploited.

Erik doubted the door would be open for long. Soon the Shah would seal his Christine and that man inside, and he would cross to the mirror, a flip of a switch enabling him to suddenly see into the room beyond. He would make him watch, make him see her hurt and pleading for help, but to react would only give the Shah more pleasure—the acts entirely the same.

But with the door open, at the very least he could offer the most simple of assurances to his beloved. He threw his voice to her ear, even as Samuel approached her—her eyes so wide and fearful even as Erik would like nothing more than to charge at him, to pummel with his fists until they bled and the man who threatened her was no longer for this world. But he could not. Not when that was precisely what the Shah was desiring of him.

His Christine did not make him weak.

She simply provided him his very reason for living.

And for her sake, for his own, he could be patient. He could wait.

Until the time was right for him to strike, to kill, to destroy.

To save them. All that was required for now was that they endure.

"I am so sorry, little wife," he murmured to her, and when he noticed her looking at him, he knew that she had heard. He had not learned this skill for this purpose. Not for whispering endearments and assurances in the midst of a deplorable situation. He had learned ventriloquism for the sake of instilling fear in his victims—to throw them off balance before he even took the time to strike. It was an effective measure, keeping him safe and distracting those he was charged to kill so he could do so with efficiency.

But now it would offer the only comfort to his wife he could supply. "I love you most sincerely, my Christine. But to show it, to protest further, would only cause them to hurt you more."

He watched as she gave a barely perceptible nod, Samuel coming toward her with that damnable knife. He eased it down Christine's arm, teasing, not quite breaking the skin, and Erik watched as Christine's breath came in short pants. Her position would make breathing all the more difficult, her hands pulled so tautly above her, and he hoped she could find some measure of calm before she gave way to hyperventilation.

She flinched and cried out when at last the knife found purchase against her upper arm. It was a long, shallow cut that did not immediately begin to bleed. So Samuel brought his hand to the wound, squeezing tightly until she moaned as blood bubbled forth, wetting the blade and christening it with her crimson blood.

Samuel walked back toward his master, providing him the evidence of his obedience.

Erik could not bring himself to look at it, instead focusing on his sobbing wife in the room beyond.

"Erik, do pay attention," the Shah snapped, forcing Erik to turn and look at him. "Samuel, return to our charming guest and shut the door. Await my further instructions." The man obeyed, sealing off Erik's last connection to Christine.

The Shah held the knife by the handle, looking at the blade at various angles, even as his eyes flickered frequently to meet Erik's. "Beautiful, isn't it? You chose very well. Surprisingly well, actually. I never would have thought a girl like her would willingly be with a man with your... affliction." His lips curled into a cruel semblance of a smile. "Or perhaps not so willingly? Was that the trouble with the girls I offered you? They were paid well enough to at least pretend to enjoy it?"

Erik's lips thinned and he refused to think about his wedding night. That was sacred—something wholly between his Christine and himself with no place in this room. This nightmare. She _had_ been willing, and he would not let this man twist something so meaningful until it bore no resemblance to what truly had been.

"I do not care for whores. I explained that to you."

The Shah ran his finger through Christine's blood, seeming to savor the texture. "I do seem to recall such a sentiment, though I cannot say I have ever understood your vehement denial. A warm body is much the same as another, regardless of its history." His head tilted and his gaze was sharp, causing Erik to prepare himself for whatever depraved thing he would suggest next. "Tell me, if your little flower in there was suddenly to know the... pleasures of other men, would you spurn her as well?"

Erik closed his eyes and prayed for calm. Prayed that she would at least be spared that. Prayed that he could answer in a way that would see the least harm come to her.

"No," he admitted. As if anything about Christine in the least compared to the types of women the Shah had entertained throughout the years.

The Shah's eyebrows rose, and he looked pointedly at the ring still residing on Erik's left hand. "Your wife is she? And still you wouldn't mind?"

Erik shook his head slowly. "That is not what I said." His blood pounded furiously in his ears simply to think of what this man might have in mind for his beauty, but he forced himself to keep himself from reacting.

The Shah leaned back in his chair, obviously displeased with his pert answers. "That is quite the mask you have fashioned. I'm sure Samuel would appreciate a few lessons in how to produce such a thing."

Erik crossed his arms. "I take it you were the one who blessed him with the burns?"

The man shrugged, obviously unrepentant. "My Angel of Death had deserted me. I wanted another." His eyes slid to the closed door. "He is not you, however. He lacks your... ingenuity. Obedient though, much more so than you."

In his earlier days, Erik might have bristled at that. He had desired to be the best, to seek out and maintain this man's approval—his good opinion. But no longer. Never again. "Why am I here?" He was attempting to keep his voice neutral, but from the way the Shah's eyes flashed, apparently it trespassed into boredom.

"They took my son away; did you know that? After you left. Before even the police came, the FBI, social services came and took away my boy."

Erik had not heard that. He was hardly a boy by the time the Shah had been pushed from the country, choosing to flee rather than face the justice system. If Erik remembered correctly, he must have neared sixteen. "I am surprised you did not dispense with them on the spot."

The Shah did not appear amused. "I was not home at the time. I was tending to _other_ matters. Such as where you had gone. How you had escaped, and how I could bring you back."

Did he expect an apology?

"Tell me, Erik, did you enjoy plotting with that fool Nadir? Did you relish every time you colluded with him, fed him evidence until my conviction would have been secure?"

That did surprise him. "I must say, you suffer the same affliction as the Daroga. He too tends to jump to conclusions in regards to my person." The Shah eyed him angrily, and Erik was quick to continue lest their conversation dissolve into another demand for more of Christine's precious blood. "I have never worked with the authorities in any capacity. Not a single one. I had not spoken to Nadir since that last night in this very house—not until just recently. If you desire revenge, I suggest you seek it elsewhere." He very nearly stressed the Daroga's participation in his escape, but held his tongue. From gratitude perhaps? A strange thought. "The only insult I perpetrated against you was to leave your employ, and I must... _request_ that you not permit Christine to suffer for that perceived slight."

There. That should be safe enough.

Except the Shah was far from a rational individual, and Erik's words did not seem to penetrate his already formed conclusions. "Oh, she will most certainly suffer, just as you will. I lost good men because of you. I lost my son because of you. I went and found him a few years ago... married now, with children. And do you know what he did?" Erik despised rhetorical questions. "He threatened to contact the police if I did not leave him be. As if I would harm my own son!"

Erik was not certain why familial bonds would hold any special distinction, but he remained silent on that subject.

He could not help but think of his poor Christine and how she must be faring. He wanted to bandage her arm, wanted to cut her free and hold her until she calmed and knew no more pain or fear. He wanted her safely tucked in her bed where he could guard her properly, both in sleep and in consciousness.

But instead he stood, coaxing this sadist to speak, biding time.

How he hated it.

The boy in question had been a gentle sort. While at first he had marveled at Erik's presence in the household, had found it great fun to press him for details of his _grand adventure_ in the travelling fair, as he had grown older, he soon regarded Erik with an emotion that greatly bordered on pity. Erik had not requested it, not welcomed it, but he could not say that he was displeased that the boy rejected both his father and his methods in favor of a simpler life.

Much as he would have liked to do. Had attempted to do. Only to be dragged back here, forced to watch his Christine be abused. His resentment grew along with his anger.

"You said he rejected you years ago. Why act now?"

The Shah smirked. "My men found you a few months ago—remarkably difficult that. Samuel was the one who finally did it. Took out a few of the ones I suspect were part of the investigation as well. But imagine my surprise when he relayed to me where you lived. A hole in the ground was better than being in my employ?" The man clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. "The insult only grew."

It most certainly was better. He had his music, had his solitude, and when the silence grew to be too much, when he could no longer remember what it was like to interact with another human soul, he would go out into the theatre and cause a little mischief. Little tricks to frighten the ballet rats, subtle manipulation of the managers so his salary was paid. The managers genuinely hated him, he was certain of that, even as much as they were afraid of what he could accomplish from within the walls of the opera house. The ballerinas however... more than once he would roll his eyes at how quickly they could go from screaming to relating tales of their horrifying experience to the other members, their eyes bright and hand movements robust as they regaled their enraptured audience with every terrifying moment.

And he would choose all of it again in an instant rather than be here with this man.

Except...

Except he did not have his Christine.

She was there, but he was cowardly, he was aloof, and he dismissed the small stirrings she instilled in him. He regretted not approaching her sooner, not going to her regardless of the pretense, and being her consolation when her father died. She had been miserable, even he could see that, but even that had not caused him to act.

And he regretted what finally had proved urgent enough to make him do so.

"And you thought my living arrangements were sufficient punishment?"

The Shah shook his head, his smirk fading. "On the contrary. But I had time. Until suddenly my little mole Buquet and Samuel informed me he had seen you stalking our girl over there. Imagine my surprise that after all this time, you had taken interest in someone."

Erik's lip almost curled. Christine was not _theirs_. She was his. And he was hers. And he hated that the Shah had yet to make it so he could see her. To assure himself that Samuel was not taking liberties without his permission.

There was a familiarity to the man. Perhaps not in his actual person, but in his mannerisms. He reminded Erik of himself when he had indulged the Shah most willingly. His actions lacked the pleasure, lacked the true desire for the destruction and death about to be inflicted, but still, he would obey.

And now that it was Christine within his clutches...

Erik could find little pity in himself for the man.

Realization came slowly. "Lana is not with you." His head tilted slightly to the side as he regarded the man who had once been his master. He had aged throughout the years, lines giving him a tired appearance. His clothing was still impeccable, his eyes held all the malice and intelligence they always had.

But there was no beautiful woman at his side, urging him on. There was no perfectly manicured hand curled about his arm as she bade him hurt, bade him entertain her.

"Has Lana left you?" Erik could barely keep the smile from his voice. It was too perfect. So many lives would have continued had this man before him not sought to indulge the woman far beyond his league. When first Lana had entered the household, Erik had thought her one of the most attractive women he had ever beheld. Dark hair, mysterious eyes, her very presence demanded a man look and appreciate. But she had a thirst for violence, for pain, to inflict it upon others, and quickly any admiration had dissolved into a sickening distrust.

For when would it be directed at him?

The Shah's expression proved perfectly adequate in confirming Erik's suspicion. "She claims she was only with me for so long because she believed I would find _you_ again. You were interesting, an enigma. Apparently I was _boring._ And when it took too long, when I'd tried to offer her too many substitutes, she finally had enough and left." The man snorted, shaking his head with disgust. "I gave her everything..."

"Evidently, that was a mistake."

The Shah slapped his hands down upon the desk, his eyes murderous. "Do not speak against her. You wish to know why you're here? I'm going to make you disappear. I'm going to make you bleed, make you pay, because I lost the only people I'd cared about, all for your miserable hide." His gaze drifted to the mirror beyond and he rose, going to the wall and allowing light to change the view, revealing Christine and Samuel in the room beyond. He turned slightly, his mouth a twisted thing as he looked back at Erik and motioned him closer.

"And I think I'll begin with your lovely bride."

* * *

Sooo... Got a bit more glimpse on what's going on! So that... helps... right?

(Anybody ready for us to get a bit of hope? Mush, Erik, mush!)


	28. Chapter 28

I think Christine could use some comfort right about now, don't you? *whispers* Erik, that's your cue!

Onward!

* * *

xxviii

Christine sat numbly in Erik's arms, trying to forget.

He was whispering to her, smoothing his fingers through her hair, even as he begged her to speak to him—to tell him that she was well. But how could she?

She tugged at her ruined wedding dress, trying to pull the bodice closed, wincing as her fingers scraped past a cut along the delicate tissue. Samuel had used a knife to open it, the Shah's voice still ringing in her ears as he'd ordered each new indignity, every cut of the knife whether it be fabric or skin. She had been so frightened when at first they had been cutting away her clothes, certain that the man next to her would soon be ordered to assault her far more intimately, but that particular order had yet to come.

But at the Shah's chuckle, the way he practically purred through the loudspeaker as he reminded her that there would always be tomorrow. "Can't use you up all at once, now can we?"

Christine shuddered just to think of it, of the way she'd sobbed until she was certain she would pass out. Her position made it difficult to fill her lungs, and her prolonged tears made her face feel hot and swollen.

She looked down at her bruised and mangled wrists, tears again pooling in her eyes.

When at last she had been brought down from her restraints and the door opened to the Shah's study, and Erik's waiting arms, she could not bring herself to move. She wanted to fling herself at her husband, to bury her face in his chest until the world simply disappeared, but that would also bring her all the closer to the Shah and his demented mind.

It did not seem to matter, however, because despite Samuel's apparent benevolence at allowing her legs to support her during her ordeal, they now seemed to forget their primary function for she collapsed upon the ground, body sore and bleeding.

Erik moved quickly and she half expected the Shah to chastise him for it. It took some maneuvering, but eventually he got his bound wrists situated about her so he could assist her, his glare at Samuel a terrible thing to behold. "I am so sorry, my love," he whispered to her, and she couldn't even bring herself to nod.

They were permitted to return to the basement with the promise of more _fun_ in the morning. Eventually the tortures had ceased; not for her sake, nor for Erik's, but because the Shah followed a strict schedule and wished to eat dinner before retiring for the evening.

The thought of food made Christine feel slightly ill.

Erik had been secured once more to his chain, but before Samuel had departed the room, Erik's voice quickly cut through the silence of the room. "Undo her bindings. You may leave mine if you wish, but she has proven nothing but cooperative. Even through your deplorable treatment of her."

Samuel turned, eyeing her dispassionately, and Christine shivered. She didn't want him looking at her. Not when she knew that stare so well now as he looked her over, determining where next she should be cut, where next she should be bruised. It didn't matter that he seemed to derive no great pleasure in the act, he was ordered and he followed it indiscriminately.

It surprised her, then, when he stepped forward, knife in hand.

She whimpered, pressing back into the circle of Erik's arms, turning away from him. "Please, no more..."

Erik kissed her forehead, and vaguely she was aware of the tears in his own eyes, even as he grasped her wrists and pushed them forward.

Toward _him_.

She opened her mouth to beg him, to beg him not to betray her in this way. She simply could not endure any more today.

Yet this time there was no blade pressing into flesh, no blood that was summoned forth to coat the unforgiving metal.

There was a tug as the tie nipped painfully into her already abraded skin, the bruising there a dark and terrible thing. But with a flick of the knife, suddenly she was free.

He would get no thanks from her.

Samuel released Erik as well, stepping away just as quickly before leaving the room entirely.

And at his departure, as the horror replaced the terror that had filled her during her time in that dreadful little room, Christine could only sit on the floor with her Erik, trying to make sense of it all.

Except she couldn't.

How did such cruelty exist?

She had known in the abstract. One could not listen to Erik's history and not have some semblance of understanding that people could be such monsters. But to experience it, to suddenly know what it felt like to be strung up and maimed, simply because someone wished to hurt, to frighten, to _tease_...

"Christine?" Erik tried again, his voice slightly broken. "Say something, please."

Christine swallowed, her mouth opening before she even had an answer to give, when again footsteps were heard.

She eyed it warily, only to see Samuel appear in the doorway, a first aid kit in his hands. "You going to do it, or should I?"

Christine shoved herself backward, not wanting that man anywhere near her again. Erik glanced at her calmly. "You may leave it here. I will tend to her."

The man nodded, placing it on the ground and sliding it in Erik's direction, obviously not going to risk coming so close to Erik's unbound hands. A measure of resentment grew within her. No one feared her. No one looked at her as any sort of threat. She was simply a girl who could be manhandled without recourse.

Erik reached over and grabbed the kit, his fingers tentative as he pushed away a bit of her hair so he could see her properly. "We need to see to your... injuries, little wife." He seemed to struggle even to form the words, and she turned then to look at him—to truly do so for the first time since they had been brought here.

His shoulders were hunched, his eyes were wide and tearful. He looked as broken as she felt on the inside.

"I was so scared," she whimpered, collapsing against him as her tears fell, this time not for the amusement of another, not as a man coldly extracted another bout of pain and degradation from her unwilling body, but for her husband to see and to offer her comfort.

And as he clutched her to him, as he whispered his apologies against her hair even as he brought her wrists to his lips and placed gentle kisses upon them, she loved him. Through it all, that remained unchanged.

"You should never have had to suffer this, sweet Christine. Never."

She sniffled, nestling closer, not caring that her tears were wetting his shirt, that at any other time he would likely push her away to fetch her a handkerchief or a tissue. These weren't normal circumstances, and she would simply relish at last being within her Erik's embrace. "I can't even imagine what he was saying to you through it all." When he stiffened, his eyes clouding even as he looked pointedly away from her, she amended her statement. "Or maybe I can."

Erik grimaced and offered her a rueful smile. "It does not matter."

"He said it was your fault, didn't he? He wanted you to blame yourself."

He ran a soothing hand through her hair. "I did not require his assistance to feel thusly, I can assure you."

Christine sighed, feeling too drained and sore to argue with him properly. Erik felt himself her protector, had told her so on many occasions. And she supposed that any husband in his situation would feel much the same when his wife was forced to endure such things.

Eventually, when she'd calmed somewhat and her sobs were not quite so violent, Erik gently eased her away so he could turn his attention to the first aid kit. He glanced over at the pallet in the far side of the room, before eyeing her dubiously. His hesitation was obvious. The chain was too short for him to fetch it himself, but clearly he did not want to ask her to see to its retrieval. Christine wanted to tell him to forget it, that she was finally feeling a little better now that she'd had her cry and was sure again that her husband loved her—his words were too tender, his hands too gentle to think anything else—but she supposed a night on the bare floor would only serve to bring about more aches come morning.

She shuddered even considering what the next day might bring.

Christine moved slowly, her cuts protesting even the slightest pull as her flesh worked hurriedly to knit itself together once more. Erik watched her with sad eyes, and she nearly gave up the venture entirely, simply too exhausted. But at last she neared it and tugged it closer, and as soon as Erik's chain would allow, he was there to pull it to their little corner, returning just as quickly to pick her up and place her upon it.

It really was better, even if the pallet itself was old and dusty.

Her bodice had fallen open again, and not for the first time she regretted not having taken the time to don a bra before coming here. Though, she noted with some bitterness, that likely would merely have been cut through as well.

"Christine? I shall begin if you are ready."

She nodded, not sure what he would manage to do with such a small kit.

She watched him work with curious detachment. The wounds themselves were not so very bad... Samuel had obviously taken deliberate care to ensure they were shallow. None would even be aided by stitches, most soothing fairly well with antiseptic and ointment, Erik peppering her with bandages regardless of their necessity. She hated the ones on her thighs the most. They might not have hurt quite as badly as others, but the fear had been acute. He had pulled up her skirt, the Shah's voice teasing over the loudspeaker that perhaps next he would cut even higher, that they would all enjoy listening to how loudly she would scream when next her most delicate places were subjected to the knife's sting.

She had sobbed then, whispering over and over to Samuel that he please, _please_ not do it, and now she hated herself a little for begging. Erik would not have begged. He would have remained cold and aloof, not giving them the satisfaction of hearing just how terrified he truly was.

Erik opened her bodice, his fingers hesitant and unsure as he checked her breasts for any damage. Her breath caught to have him studying them, saddened that their explorations of one another had been so truncated by all of this dreadfulness. There were no cuts there, though Samuel had traced his knife over her pale flesh, the possibility ever present. "You would scar the most here," he had told her, his voice so calm and unaffected by all that he had done. "You should be glad he doesn't want them marked yet."

Her papa's ring still dangling on its chain had proved too great a distraction.

Christine had wanted to kick him when he'd pulled it from her, tucking her most cherished memento into his pocket, not at all disturbed by her glare and angered demand that he return it to her. And now, as her fingers ached to hold it again, she wished she had fought, yelled, spat. She wished she had done anything at all. Because now she felt weak and useless, and she hated it.

"I should have done more," she whispered angrily to herself, not expecting Erik to answer her.

The firm grip on her chin was unexpected as he made her look at him, his eyes fully expressing his insistence. "You performed most admirably, Christine. If you had reacted any differently, any differently at all, he would have hurt you more. You saved the both of us that, and I thank you for it. Even if I shall hear your screams in my mind for the rest of my life." He stopped his doctoring for a moment so he could pull her once more into his embrace, and she was glad of it. "If you refuse to allow me to shoulder the blame, you equally are disallowed from taking it upon yourself for whatever is to come. There is satisfaction in the fight, it is true. I have felt it. But the consequences are typically not worth it."

She hated that he had such knowledge, could answer so certainly that a captor could obliterate the temporary thrill at open rebellion. But she would have to trust him, would have to shove away the thoughts that somehow she should have acted differently. He was right; she knew he was. It would have been worse.

The worst of her wounds was her upper arm where Samuel had coaxed her blood forth. In addition to the angry red edges, there was some bruising which made her wince as Erik eventually pulled back from her so he could clean the cut and wrap a bandage about her arm.

"I will not bother asking if you feel any better," Erik told her miserably when at last he seem satisfied that he had staved off any potential infection.

Christine nodded, wanting nothing more than to lie down for a while and sleep. Maybe then she would wake up and all of this would be over.

She was about to do so when she noted Erik's fingers drifting over a pair of small, flimsy scissors that had been nestled in the kit. They were likely there to cut through some of the gauzes, and appeared far too dull and insignificant to prove useful as any sort of weapon. "Are you going to be my champion with those? I believe a sword would function better."

Erik glanced at her sharply, his eyes searching hers for... something. Did he look to see if she was mocking him? She teased maybe, but that was all. Every bit of her own torture was reflected in his sad eyes, and while she felt the deepest hatred for the Shah, for Samuel, there was no room for it when it came to her Erik. Not when he looked at her so, as if his very heart was breaking for her.

"I would do anything for you."

* * *

Sooo... You're going to have to actually ACT on that this time, Erik! Methinks people are getting anxious for it at this point... not the least of which is Christine! But it's nice to have some actually Erik and Christine interaction again, right?


	29. Chapter 29

I'm sorry this is late! Yesterday was very full and then the internet has been sketchy and uncooperative today and... *sigh* It's a conspiracy, I say!

Anyway, new segment. Onward! (And seriously Erik, get a move on!)

* * *

xxix

Erik kissed Christine's temple as she lay on that simple mat, an old and threadbare thing when last he had been here. The entire room was musty and there was nothing pleasant about any of it. After all that she had endured, Erik could even admit to himself that he was not so selfish as to be glad of her company during this ordeal. She would have worried had she been left behind in their little temporary home, but at least she would have been safe. And that was what he wanted most for her.

The pair of scissors was a fortunate find—one that he doubted Samuel was aware even existed within the kit or else he would not have been so stupid as to leave it with him. He could not begin to work until he was certain they were locked in for the night, so he held his Christine and hummed soothing melodies to her, coaxing her to sleep. She should have some measure of respite.

It felt wrong to consider leaving her, if only for a moment, but he also could not risk bringing her along. He knew these hallways, knew how to hide, to go unseen, and while Christine was all loveliness, she had no such skills. She would rest here, and he would hurry back to her, lest any of their captors decide to check on them throughout the night.

Food and water had been brought. He would have rejected both had the water not come in sealed bottles, no sign of puncture or contamination evident. Christine had eyed both warily but he had persuaded her to eat a little something. It certainly would not be poisoned, but there was the possibility of a sedative so as to keep them pliant and still throughout the night, but Erik was not convinced that would be a bad thing for Christine. Not when she had already suffered so much and could use a deep sleep to aid recuperation.

It was only after she had eaten and taken a little water that she looked about the room with an anxious expression. It took no great measure of genius to understand her need.

"There is a washroom through that door."

He doubted his chain would permit him to make use of such facilities, but if things went well, he likely would not be so bound for long.

Christine had been asleep for almost an hour, and the house was quiet overhead before Erik broke apart the scissors and bent and manipulated them into a crude set of lock picks. He had an elegant pair tucked within his suitcase, he noted with a grimace, as these felt clumsy and short even as he manipulated both ends into the small lock about his ankle.

It took longer than he would care to admit, but at last the fastener gave way, leaving him free to move about at will.

He checked on Christine, and noted her slightly swollen eyes, the remnants of tears on her cheeks—a vivid reminder of just how miserable she truly was.

He hated the bandages covering her arms and legs, hated that even in sleep her hands clutched at nothing, her father's ring no longer there for her to hold. His poor little wife looked lost and confused, and he would have her free from here.

But standing about watching her would achieve nothing, so he crouched low and whispered gently against her temple. "I shall return shortly, little wife. You rest here."

The door was no great hindrance, once he discovered that a few of his tools remained in his basement dwelling after all. He ignored the lock entirely, choosing instead to focus on the hinges. They protested, and he would dabble more grease onto their lengths so as to ensure their cooperation, eventually managing to pull open the door just enough for him to slip through. He positioned it back so that it appeared as if nothing at all was wrong, and prayed silently that he would be quick enough that none would notice his absence.

He simply would not consider what it would mean for Christine should they realize his bonds were not sufficient inducement to remain where they had placed him.

The house was dark, the world beyond evidently suffering a storm for there was little light to cast shadows in the already black interior. Erik contemplated his options. He could risk the front door, but from what he remembered from his years spent here previously, the Shah had a rather magnificent security system to dissuade intruders. And, as it had become, it proved remarkably effective in keeping others of his choice inside.

Erik traversed the familiar passages, slowing his steps when he heard voices in a room beyond. He listened intently. A woman's voice, an artificial laugh...

Television.

Likely the goon.

He had stopped outside one of the guest suites, but now he moved all the more hurriedly. The overhead lights were functioning, which led him further to believe that the alarm would also be activated, and that also could indicate that the phones were connected as well.

He hoped he was not wrong.

He did not wish to return to this study—if he had his way, never would have again. But if there was a working phone to be had, it would be where the Shah could use it at his leisure. He only hoped that the man had remained true to his preference for landlines instead of relying solely on cellular devices.

Yet it was entirely possible that things had changed over the years.

The study was locked, no light emanating from beneath the door, and as he listened, measuring his breath so he could hear all the better into the room beyond, he was fairly confident that the Shah had already retired for the evening. He pulled out his lock picks, this set from his previous captivity, with finer points for more delicate work, before he slowly pushed upon the impediment.

Only to find it empty.

He had not realized how anxious he had been until he was now assured that he had yet to be caught, and he quickly entered the room and secured the lock once again, striding quickly to the corner of the room and used the hard-backed chair to wedge against the door, an additional obstacle should he require one.

He used no light, instead moving to the desk, the sleek black phone still resting in the corner. It was an old rotary style, a remnant of a lost age, but Erik held no reverence for it. He picked up the receiver quickly.

A dial tone.

His relief was nearly overwhelming.

Inputting the number took a frustrating amount of time. Erik was aware of every sound, every turn of the dial as eventually he was able to manage all of the necessary digits, praying all the while that Christine would sleep on, their captors ignorant of his absence.

"Hello?"

He could have contacted the authorities through the emergency number, but he knew how ridiculous their situation sounded. Which made calling upon the Daroga a necessary evil. "Do not speak, simply listen. Christine and I have been procured by the Shah and are being held at his estate. You will come. You will bring assistance. You will free my wife from this. Immediately. Do you understand?"

Perhaps he should have attempted at pleasantries, been more kindly in his manner. But the urgency was dire, stripping away whatever remnants of civility remained in him.

"The old house? From before?"

Erik closed his eyes briefly, gladdened that the man did not seek to argue with him, nor question the truthfulness of his claim. "Yes."

"Have they... is Christine all right?"

Erik very nearly flinched when he considered the state she was currently in. "No," hating that it was so very true. "And she will be even less so if the Shah is permitted to have access to her in the morning." Erik hesitated, needing to hear the words, needing to know for certain that for once, help would come when he sought it. "You will come?"

Nadir's answer was firm and instantaneous. "I promise. And I'll bring the damned cavalry with me."

Erik did not know why there was suddenly a lump in his throat, why it meant so much to him that for once the authorities seemed to be on his side. Yet it did. "Thank you," he managed, most sincerely.

"Just hang on, Erik. Keep that girl of yours safe. We're coming."

Erik replaced the receiver. They were not out of danger, not yet, but at least there was hope that help would come should he be unable to secure their freedom by his own means. Already he was growing anxious to return to Christine, to hold her and assure that he could keep her safe while she rested, so he returned the chair to its proper corner, surveying the room carefully for any signs of upset, before going to the door and carefully opening it.

Only to see a man staring at him.

"Didn't think it would take you very long to get out," Samuel noted, making no move to engage Erik physically. He was leaning against the wall of the hallway, his posture almost casual as he regarded Erik.

Erik stepped into the darkened passageway, shutting the door behind him. He would not panic, would not beg. If necessary, he would kill the man before him. He did not relish the thought, would likely be injured himself in the process, but he would do what was necessary. Always had. And now that Christine's life was so dependent upon him, he could do no less at present. "Will the Shah be gracing us with his presence as well?"

Samuel shrugged, crossing his arms. "Haven't called him yet."

Erik's eyes narrowed, assessing him. There were similarities in their situations, although the Shah had even gone so far as to have caused the maiming to this man's face in an effort to replicate his lost assassin. It somewhat surprised him that Samuel continued in his employ. But Erik knew full well that the appearance of acquiescence was not always the same thing as willingly consenting to working for the Shah. "Is there a particular reason for the delay?"

Samuel met his gaze unflinchingly. "I want out. Away from him. I think you could make that happen."

Erik's mouth formed a thin line. "You were the one to harm my wife. You think I could so easily overlook such abuses?"

The man shifted ever so slightly, leaving Erik with the distinct impression he was uncomfortable with the reminder. "I did what I had to. You think Jerry would have been any kinder to her? He likes to take advantage. I can guarantee she would have been in far worse shape if I hadn't done it myself."

Erik knew that. This man was efficient and cold, much as Erik had been. He derived no pleasure in the acts, not like some. But that did not make him overly inclined to help the man either. "And I suppose if I do not agree, you will make it known that I did not remain in my cell."

Samuel nodded solemnly. "If I must."

"I do not take kindly to coercion."

The man shrugged again. "We do what we must. Now, am I going to the Shah or are you going to be useful?"

Erik briefly considered striking. He typically relied upon weapons, would have taken great comfort in having one at his side. But when he had left this house all those years ago, he had taken all such devices with him as he faced the outside world. But there would be some measure of satisfaction to feel his bare hands squeezing at this man's neck, the images of him so deliberately cutting through Christine's flesh enough to make the prospect a pleasing one.

Yet when he considered that, considered what Christine would say if he was to confess such a thing, he hesitated.

"I have contacted the authorities. If you would care to vacate the premises before their arrival, I would suggest doing so shortly."

Samuel's eyes widened ever so slightly. "The alarm would make that difficult."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Then by all means, you are welcome to be arrested. It would not grieve me to know that you would be punished for the harm you have caused Christine, regardless of your personal justification." He knew of those far too well, realized how hypocritical he was likely being. He had manipulated the entire situation with Christine to avoid even the possibility of serving any time in prison. But even now, he could not bring himself to wholly regret it. Not when he would still have the opportunity to spend the rest of his life with her, being whatever she needed. He was no fool. She would not recover from this ordeal quickly. But he would not be noble and submit to the police and tell them of all the wrongs he had done, seeking conviction for those crimes. To do so would not prove a benefit to Christine. And that was what mattered most.

Samuel continued to study Erik, eventually nodding slowly. "Fine. You'd better get back in the basement though. The Shah was thinking about surprising you with a visit."

Erik scowled. He had every intention of going there, but to do so... to wait for the Shah would mean that Christine would also be near. And he was so very tired of her being used against him, being hurt simply because he had the audacity to no longer obey.

"Is he in his usual bedroom?"

Samuel looked at him with some surprise, but it was quickly hidden away by the blank expression he had so clearly mastered. "Yes," he answered simply. "And he has her ring. The one I took. You might want to get that back from him."

"You tempt me to kill you now for what you did."

Samuel sighed. "Can't say I blame you for that, but I'd appreciate if you didn't. I'd like a chance to have a life of my own. Like you've got now."

Erik was slightly taken aback that for once he was in possession of a life worth envying, but he supposed he understood. He had a wife who loved him. His life held purpose now, meaning, besides torture and death. And there was nothing he would trade for the privilege of being with her.

Nothing at all.

So when Samuel turned and walked away, Erik did nothing to stop him, and he hoped he was not making a terrible mistake. He did not know if he intended to disable the alarm or simply break through a window and run, but should he choose the latter, he had to move quickly.

For when the police arrived, he would have to disappear as well. The Daroga might have been willing to come now, when the promise of arrests and closed cases proved too tempting to ignore. But he would not risk being arrested, and there was something that he would not allow his wife to leave without.

Not when it meant so much to her.

* * *

Sooo... who's ready for the whole damned cavalry? And who expected Samuel to actually be helpful? Think Erik was too easy on him? And do we think he's going to just go scoop up Christine and leave or perhaps make a quick stop first to meet with a certain Shah? Hmmm...


	30. Chapter 30

Guess who's sick again? It's meeeeee! Fever and all. Mixed with allergies thanks to these blooming pear trees (that landscapers decided needed to be eeeeverywhere... that sounds like it should be an old-fashioned curse. Blooming pear trees!... I'm on so much Dayquil right now...)

Anyway! Let's see what Erik's up to, shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallll we?

Onward!

* * *

xxx

The walk to the Shah's bedroom was not one he was overly familiar with, but he knew of its location simply for the sake of avoiding it.

There was no light shining beneath the door, and Erik opened it ever so gently to ensure he could maintain some measure of surprise. He rolled his eyes when he heard the snores. It surprised him somewhat that the man had not locked his own door, but evidently he was so secure with his own importance, the knowledge that he supposedly had commanded enough loyalty from his men that such precautions were not deemed necessary. Erik drifted to the thick draperies, grabbing the tie-back. Not the typical length for his favored weapon, but it would prove adequate enough. He quickly knotted it, the tassel proving a garish addition that he did not particularly care for, but it would function well enough.

He moved closer to the bed, to the sleeping figure resting within it, and surveyed the immediate area for signs of any weaponry. It was possible a knife or even a gun was situated beneath the numerous pillows, but there was nothing immediately evident.

Erik threw his voice to the corner of the room, the man beside him jumping even in his sleep at the thunderous sound. "Sleeping well, Shah?"

The man bolted upright, his hand scrambling both with the bedside lamp and the nightstand drawer. He managed to hit the switch, the room suddenly filled with light.

Erik worked quickly. He flung his makeshift lasso and pulled it tight, his other hand easing open the drawer and removing a gun. He tucked it into his waistband, his other hand keeping the choking figure immobile. "Surprise," he murmured, finding some amount of satisfaction at the sudden turn in their fortunes. "Did you think I would simply allow you to do as you pleased without consequence?"

The Shah glared at him, doing an admirable job of squelching any signs of fear. Erik did not release his hold enough for him to speak. There was no purpose in it. "I am still debating about killing you," he mused thoughtfully. "I see the merit in doing so, would you not agree? You have proven incapable of moving beyond the past, which could make you a potential threat to the quiet future I desire." He tightened the noose, still pondering, relishing the gurgled sound of discomfort that the Shah released. He loosened it just slightly. "But the authorities are coming, and there is a certain justice in the knowledge that you will while away the rest of your days in a prison cell. Caged. Watched. Humiliated. Does that sound at all familiar?"

The man wheezed in enough breath to comment. "I should have left you to rot in that camp," he spat out hatefully. "You've caused me nothing but grief."

Erik smiled. "Good. I should hate to think I have proved a benefit to you."

Killing him would be easy. A tighter hold, muscles straining as he constricted the rope until this man merely ceased to exist. And yet...

He hesitated.

A flash of gold catching his eye. The bastard was wearing Christine's necklace about his own neck. As if he had that right. He pulled the chain hard, breaking the clasp as he did so, his disgust evident. Erik slipped the ring onto his own finger for safekeeping.

"Just kill me and be done," the Shah bit out angrily. "You've already ruined everything else in my life. Why not simply take it altogether?"

Why did he not? So easy, just a twist of his wrist and it would be over. He did not even have to strangle him. Breaking his neck would be simple enough.

"My wife asked if I was sorry for what I had done. I told her I was." Erik tightened the noose, effectively cutting off the Shah's remaining oxygen. The struggles renewed with vicious vigor. "And I think that I was right."

Sirens blared in the distance, and for once Erik was glad of them. The police were coming, would cart away these men and their ridiculous vendettas. He could take away his injured wife and tend to her properly, bring her tea and settle her on the couch with all of her favorite films, plying her with all the things she had shown him were good and comforting.

The police were obviously coming closer, and he wondered if Samuel had managed to find a way to escape the house. It did not matter to him if he had not, so long as he left Christine alone. Erik stilled at the thought, suddenly feeling it urgent that he return to her.

A hostage was always a useful tool, and he prayed that Samuel would not prove so cruel. If he did, there was no mistaking that Erik would see to his demise.

Erik released the noose when he heard the cars upon the gravel drive, heard doors slamming as officers arrived.

He stepped back, looking at the man before him with a strange apathy, before pulling the gun free. The safety was not engaged, and it took but a moment, a quick pull of the trigger to cause it to fire.

The Shah screamed and cursed, his glare intense as he clutched at his leg. "You son of a bitch. You shot me!"

Erik strode back toward the door, keeping the gun leveled should he have another weapon close at hand. "You will receive no argument from me on either charge. Enjoy prison. I cannot say that I envy you for it."

And with that, the Shah's voice screaming for his goon, for Samuel to hurry up and kill Erik for this insult, Erik hurried back down the stairs to check on his Christine.

Some vice about his heart released when he saw her on that shoddy pallet, her eyes wide and fearful as they heard the bang of the front door being bashed in, the screech of the alarm as it announced their intruders.

Erik hurried forward, tucking the gun away before scooping her into his arms, holding her close and reassuring himself that she was safe. "Erik? What's going on?"

His heart was pounding, his blood loud in his own ears even as relief coursed through him. He would not truly relax again, not until he was away from the police and was certain that nothing would part him from his Christine, but even so...

His throat was tight at the realization that someone had actually come when he had called. Perhaps not solely for his benefit. Perhaps the man had only conjured his compatriots simply to release Christine from her captivity, but still it was enough.

He had needed help, and it was offered.

"The Daroga has brought his cavalry," he assured her, nestling her all the closer. "And I brought you something."

It took some maneuvering, but he managed to retrieve her father's ring and he immediately saw her gratitude, her joy at its return as she held the ring tightly between her palms. "How did you..." She shook her head. "Never mind. Just... _thank you_."

"Anything for you, Christine. Anything at all."

There was a commotion upstairs and Erik held Christine a little tighter, drawing her to the corner of the room beneath the stairs so they would not be readily visible by any who descended. Erik would take no chances.

The sound of footsteps above them and the odd scuff of the door being pushed off its hinges made Christine burrow even closer. "It'll be okay, won't it?" she whispered, her voice thick with tears and fear and possibly just a little bit of hope.

To Erik's surprised, it sounded as if the door was being repositioned to give the impression of being closed, and he tensed as a figure descended slowly, a gun drawn.

"Erik?"

He relaxed somewhat, even as his tone remained terse. "You may put away your weapon, unless you intend to shoot either of us. Though if that is the case, I suggest leaving before I end you here and now."

Christine looked up at him with wide eyes, and he brushed a kiss across her temple. "Just watch," he murmured softly, and they saw the Daroga lower his gun, holstering it completely when he made it fully into the room and evidently was satisfied that there were no other occupants.

Nadir nodded toward Christine. "Are you all right? An ambulance is on its way."

Erik forced away a wince. He would surrender her to a medical examination if she felt that she required one, though every part of him rebelled. He wanted to whisk her away, to shelter her somewhere private so he could tend to her in peace, with no prying eyes, no conflicting opinions.

But her needs came first.

"Erik took care of me," she answered, shimmying somewhat in an apparent desire to be put down. Erik hesitated but ultimately relented. She was not his captive.

She glanced between the two men, and Erik wondered what she saw. So much must still be confusing to her. She had not been privy to the Shah's reasons for their abduction, nor his jaunt to the study to contact the Daroga. Yet she did not pester for answers, only looked so unbearably tired and his desire to remove her from this place became even more imperative. "What will happen to us now?" she questioned the detective, swaying slightly on her feet. Erik looped his arm about her waist, supporting her. Too many drugs and an abundance of adrenaline were obviously proving too much for her.

"What would you like to happen?" The Daroga asked carefully, his eyes straying toward Erik. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing, his fingers itching to reach for the gun and force him to leave the room. But he could not. Not now. Not with Christine present.

Erik expected him to press Christine for details of her time with him. To demand she explain their relationship and whether or not she was truly with him willingly. But instead Nadir stood patiently, waiting for her to speak with a look that bordered on compassion.

Perhaps the man could learn after all.

Christine shivered, her arms coming to tuck about her torso, mindful of her wounds. "I just want to go home." She glanced up at Erik, her eyes nearly pleading with him. "We can go home now, can't we? It's all over?"

He would have liked to have rubbed her arm to create some warmth, but her bandages precluded such an action. "Whatever you desire, Christine."

He only wished he knew what home he had to offer her.

The Daroga stepped a little nearer, watching the two of them with calculating eyes, still saying nothing. Until he turned his head, evidently speaking into a radio to the people beyond. "The basement is clear. No one present. Did you secure the rest of the house?"

Erik could not hear the answer, but Nadir nodded to himself, looking pleased. He turned his attention back to Erik. "The Shah is in custody. Got a hole in his leg. Know anything about that?"

Erik gave a little shrug. "I cannot say that I do."

To his surprise, the Daroga smirked back at him. "I'll make sure they're occupied out front so you can take Christine out the back." Erik merely blinked at him, and Nadir sighed. "I believe you, all right? I believe that you haven't been murdering people all this time, I believe that you care about that girl next to you. And from the way she's leaning into you, I'd say the feeling is pretty mutual. Just... do me a favor and stay out of trouble, got it? Find a nice place somewhere and just... go be happy with her. Make _her_ happy."

Words failed him, too overwhelmed was he by this strange turn of events. He had expected that he would need to disarm the Daroga and make his escape, dodging the rest of the police as he took Christine to safety.

But to know that he was genuinely being helped... that his innocence was _believed_.

He was strangely pleased.

"How many men did you arrest?"

"Two. The Shah and one of his men. Poor bastard never saw it coming, had the TV on too loud." The Daroga frowned. "Too few, isn't it? Should have had more guards and security."

Erik nodded. "There was a third, who evidently was meant to have... taken my place. He likely committed the crimes you so kindly sought to charge me with."

Nadir sighed again. "We'll look into it. Though if he is anything like you, the chances of finding him probably aren't good." His eyes narrowed as he regarded the both of them. "You'll need transportation." He dug a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to Erik. "It's the black sedan out front. Leave it somewhere I can find it, okay?"

Erik stared down at them, still struggling to understand all that was occurring, until suddenly Christine was tugging on his sleeve, drawing his attention. "Can we _please_ leave now? I know it's important to talk about everything that... happened, but maybe later? I don't... I really don't want to be here anymore."

Erik looked to the Daroga who nodded, turning from them both and making his way back up the stairs. He turned back only briefly, his expression difficult to fully decipher. "Take care of each other," he stated simply, before making his way through the door beyond.

"Home, Erik," Christine insisted.

"I know, Christine," Erik assured her. "But where precisely is that?"

And when she faltered, there was no denying his need to hold her, to carry her from this place. To take her past the lingering officers, into the world beyond.

"Home is wherever you are," she murmured quietly against his shoulder. "So wherever you think is best."

And in that moment, he needed the familiar. Needed to take her someplace safe and quiet where they could both begin to heal.

So he took her to the only home they had both known.

He took her to the theatre.

* * *

Sooo... What do you think? Did Erik do the right thing? A rare thing for him (and me!) to let him live... Thoughts?

And I think Erik and Christine could use some alone time right about now... do you like that Nadir came through for them? Also a bit shocking coming from me...


	31. Chapter 31

Second to last chapter! So the eeend is nigh... (And given my failure throughout this story to stick to my update days, I'm not sure that's a bad thing...) But before this story ends, we have to check in on our couple, don't we? They've been through a lot of late... Which of course could not possibly have been avoided by any such authorly person because she is simply a conduit for the story... *blinks innocently*

Onward!

* * *

xxxi

"If you sleep much longer, we shall miss our flight."

Christine swatted at her husband, burrowing further into the blankets. "You can't miss a private plane. It leaves when you do."

He chuckled, smoothing his fingers through her hair, surprised when he lay down next to her and pulled her close. "True," he agreed, a smile in his voice. "But I thought you were anxious to rescue your Wellies. I believe you stated we were insulting them by leaving them abandoned for so long."

An insistent tug in her heart confirmed that he was right, but she was warm and comfortable now that he was once again beside her, and she was not very anxious to move. At least not yet.

It had been ten days since they had come to Erik's underground home. Ten days beneath the theatre that had once meant so very much to her. Ten days since they had left the Shah's estate in the detective's borrowed car.

Her cuts were healing nicely with Erik paying particular attention to their care. She had fretted about scars, worried that he would think her ugly if any permanent reminders remained of their brief captivity, but Erik had given her an incredulous look and bent low, placing a kiss on each of her bandages. "You are absurd, little wife," he told her most sincerely. She had huffed, not so secretly pleased that he could so easily dismiss her troubles. He had been wary of touching her too much, but as the days had progressed—as the quiet of his home, the soothing melodies he had played for her had seeped into her consciousness—she had welcomed him back to her, a happy retreat from the cruel delay to their honeymoon.

Erik's home was nothing like she imagined.

That first day, when he had carried her beneath the opera house, she could admit how frightened she had been. The tunnels were a dark, dreary place, and she had huddled close to Erik lest something reach out and grab her in the blackness. He had sighed a few times when she had screeched unnecessarily, eventually humming soothingly into her ear as he walked, moving them toward his home.

In Nadir's car he had explained their destination, but the whole thing seemed entirely too bizarre to be real.

Except that it was.

Never could she have imagined such a home. The exterior did not resemble a dwelling; not at all. Too rocky, too obscure, and to her utmost surprise they had even been forced to make use of a boat before they could even find the entrance. But when he opened it, when the rooms filled with light from the carefully placed sconces along the walls, it was quite the marvel. Plush carpets, rich furnishings offset what would have been a gloomy existence based upon the conditions of the tunnels beyond. But her Erik had transformed it.

It was dusty from his time away, and she was too tired from the entire ordeal to tend to anything. So after only the briefest of tours, he had taken her to a bedroom, pulling away the current quilt on the bed and laying down a fresh blanket before tucking her in securely.

Perhaps had she felt at all normal, his fussing would have been unappreciated. But exhausted and sore, she was grateful for his care.

And for the subsequent insight into her husband's life before she had known him.

His music room was a magnificent thing. He had led her there on their first real evening together. Erik had taken her hand, a little timidly, a little shyly, guiding her into a room off the main living space. While everything she had seen of her Erik suggested he was of a neat and orderly sort, his music room suggested quite the opposite. Papers cluttered nearly every surface, compositions abandoned that must have taken hours to complete.

All forgotten, because of her.

"You couldn't have taken them with you?" Christine asked, walking forwards and picking up a sheet from the topmost pile. It was detailed, though the ink smudged and splattered on occasion, a testament to how hurriedly he had worked to put the notes onto paper.

Erik shrugged, leaning against the doorjamb, watching her.

She would have felt self-conscious, except he did not appear to mind her perusal. Perhaps he wanted her to know this part of him. Wanted her to know more of him besides the dark and lonely parts he had bared to her when he spoke about his past. Her heart warmed to think that it pleased him to share himself with her.

"I did not think that a marshal would travel with a host of compositions in his belongings."

Christine smirked, returning the sheet music to its brethren and walking over to the large pipe organ dominating the room. An odd choice, to be sure. A piano would have surprised her less, though to find any such instrument at all in this house of stone was incredible enough. "You could have come up with some story to excuse it, I'm sure."

Erik grimaced. "I did not like to lie to you. I hope you know that."

Christine reached out and skimmed her fingers over the keys, not daring to press down on any of them. "I know," she confirmed, meaning it. The way he looked at her, there was no denying his distress at his past deception.

He had played for her then, had her sit upon the organ seat beside him as he coaxed forth music more beautiful than she thought possible, keeping to the sweeter refrains. His song spoke of happiness, contentment. And she hoped it was a reflection of how he felt with her.

She worried for him; still did even now. He tended not to sleep, and she had found him more than once watching her as she dozed, until finally she had coaxed him to her with beckoning arms, biding him to tell her of his troubles.

"How can you forgive me? For everything? For lying and for…" His finger drifted over the largest of her bandages, not at all pressing but making his meaning quite clear.

"Erik," she soothed, trying to find the words to adequately express how little she blamed him. "I told you before that the Shah was responsible for all this. And I mean it still. You said that I did what was necessary, and so did you. I don't… I _won't_ let us be ruined by what he did. He doesn't have that power over you anymore, not if you don't let him."

They had made love after that. Her Erik had been so tender, so careful, his eyes ever watchful for even the slightest discomfort on her part. There was none, not when he treasured her so completely. There was an urgency that had not been there before as she clutched him a little nearer, held him a little closer. They had experienced the pain of the unknown, of the possibility of losing one another due to the designs of another, and to feel this wholeness once again made her eyes burn and her pulse quicken all the more. Her heart ached a little when he brought a cloth and shyly turned away as she cleaned herself afterward, before he eased her back into her nightshirt, pulling her close and arranging the blankets as he wished, his own form carefully concealed in pajamas.

"They won't find us here," she reminded mostly to him, but maybe a bit for her own sake as well. "We can be naked whenever we want."

He'd kissed her temple, hushing her gently. "Sleep," he told her, and she hoped he would heed his own suggestion as well. He needed it, despite his denials.

And she was gratified when she awoke first the next morning, her husband curled about her back, his breath deep and even as he slept. She appreciated his desire to guard her, to watch over her as she slept so that none could ever interfere again. But if they were to truly heal, to move past their abduction, he needed to trust that a moment's respite would not end in disaster.

And she needed that as well.

On their fourth day, she broached the subject of returning to their previous abode, and Erik's immediate response made it perfectly plain that he did not approve of such an action. "It isn't safe," he told her firmly, turning back to the fireplace and poking at a log to urge the flame higher. They had taken to enjoying their evenings—or what she thought were evenings—before a cheery fire. She'd pushed his couch closer, answering his protests with a smile and a pat of her hand upon the cushion, inviting him to keep her company. His scowl had eased after that, apparently more desirous of holding her close than complaining over his furnishings being moved about.

He settled back with her, his arm draping about her shoulders of its own accord, and she lay back against him, watching the log and flame flicker and meld. "We don't have to stay there if you don't want to," she assured him gently. She'd given it a great deal of thought and yet still had not concluded where ultimately she would like to live. There was something romantic in the idea of leaving all of this behind in favor of their western retreat—of living near the ocean with only her Erik for company.

And yet, being back—even secluded as they were—there was something appealing about remaining within the confines of this city. She had yet to call Meg, but had determined that when she felt ready, she would do so. She missed her, wanted to at least confide some semblance of what had transpired over the course of her absence, but had yet to broach the subject with Erik.

Erik hummed noncommittally, brushing his fingers through her hair before tugging at her sleeve.

Well, _his_ sleeve.

"Perhaps I shall refuse to procure clothes for you. Then I can keep you quite as you are."

Christine blushed. Unsurprisingly, Erik had no female clothes within his home, and she had taken to wearing naught but one of his shirts and a pair of his longest socks as she lounged about his home, resting and dozing all the while. She did not know where her dress had disappeared to, but it had not been there when at last she had awoken from her initial sleep and taken a luxurious bath. Erik had not answered her enquiries, and eventually she had ceased asking, if only so he would stop blinking at her so innocently, claiming not to recall that there had been a dress at all.

And, she was forced to admit, it made it remarkably easy to undress when certain moods urged them to do so.

"What about our things?" she urged gently. Tempting as his offer was to continue in their isolation, her most treasured items were still at that little house on the beach, and it would grieve her thoroughly to lose them.

He frowned when she told him that. "I could go and return as soon as I had procured them. The trip need not take very long."

Christine sat back, not at all liking the thought of him leaving her. His home was a cozy thing when he was present there—when he continued to surprise her with each of its strange features, to share in warm baths and hot tea and all the best things. But she would be confused and frightened to remain buried here all alone. "Why wouldn't I come with you?"

Erik said nothing, instead fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

Christine sighed. "I can't stay here by myself," she told him plainly. "I'd go crazy. If you... if you really don't want me to come, maybe I could stay at my old apartment." This time there was no mistaking precisely how distasteful he thought her suggestion. "Why not?"

"Your security is woefully lacking. It was only by some stroke of providence that no harm came to you whilst living there."

Defensiveness welled within her, and she huffed. "I quite liked that place, thank you. It was all mine, and I don't like you saying bad things about it."

Erik looked away from her, a great deal of his apology losing any sincerity by his tone and posture. "I am sorry, Christine, but I would not be able to go if you insisted upon remaining there. Not when I am so well acquainted with its myriad of flaws."

Christine very nearly retorted that the only reason he had such knowledge was because he had been attempting to break in himself, but he already blamed himself for so much that it seemed too mean-spirited, even in her current mood.

"You said yourself, the trip doesn't have to be long. But, Erik," she insisted, taking his hand so he would look at her. "Please, this is important to me. Couldn't you at least think about it for a bit and try to decide how we could go together? In a way where you'd still be comfortable?"

He stared at her for a while longer eventually sighing and pulling her close. "How can I deny you anything when you look at me that way?"

It was a few days later when he had informed her of his plans. She was surprised at how nervous she became when he announced that they would indeed be leaving together on a private plane that would take them there and back again, all within the same day. No more hotels, no more driving for hours.

No more fortress to keep the world away.

But her fears only made her all the more determined that this was the right thing to do for both of them. It was too easy to lock themselves away, to waste away their lives and talents with only each other for company. And if that was what they chose to do in future, that would be all right, but she would not allow them to do so simply because they were too afraid to take a different course.

But that night she had asked Erik for his phone. She knew that he had one as he had spoken to Detective Nadir on it the day before. Samuel had apparently disappeared, but the Shah was still within custody, the charges against him long and serious.

"He's not getting out," Nadir had assured them, Erik not minding as she pressed her ear close enough so she could hear as well. Evidently the time for their secret conversations had passed. "You won't need to worry about him again."

"I won't have to testify, will I?" Christine had asked Erik afterward, hating the thought of doing so, but willing to do so if it was necessary to see him imprisoned.

Erik shook his head. "No, Christine. You need not think of him ever again. He will face justice, and that is enough."

He was surprisingly forthcoming when she at last had asked about the reason for their abduction, of all that the Shah had told him while she had endured the bite of the knife in the room beyond.

"Did that woman… did she ever try to… be with you?"

It was a silly thing to ask. She had known of her Erik's lack of experience already, but it sickened her to think of such a cruel woman propositioning him—perhaps even coercing him into something so intimate.

Erik shrugged. "She was not the first to have done so. The Shah had many visitors of the female sort; women of very… questionable reputation. They did not want me for myself," he pressed on, watching her face carefully for any reaction, even as she struggled simply to listen. She had been the one silly enough to ask.

"Then why did they… want that?"

He smiled at her, and she could see his sadness, the pain buried there. "Simply to say that they had done so—had bedded the Angel of Death and had lived to speak of it. They were not a good people, Christine, and not worth your time and attention. I rejected them, whenever they offered, and that is what matters, is it not?" He looked at her a little unsurely, and she hugged him close.

She hated that they had sought to use him that way—to have offered him such things simply so they could gloat and marvel as if he was not a man with feelings of his own. "I want to be with you for yourself. To be close to you, and to love you, and to share myself with you."

She felt him press a kiss into her hair, shuddering a little as he did so. "I know you do, my Christine. You are all I could ever hope for in a wife."

And she could imagine no better husband.

* * *

Sooo... Looks like things are turning out rather alright for them... about time too! Think Christine was too forward to ask that last bit? And think it's right that they're instigating a Wellie rescue mission?

*sniffles* Only one segment to go!


	32. Chapter 32

Here we go; last segment! Thank you to my faithful readers (and most especially, my reviewers!), and those who have bought and reviewed copies too. I would not be writing these stories if it was not for you and your encouragements!

So, for now, one final... onward!

* * *

xxxii

So when she at last asked him for his phone, she was gratified when he did not argue with her, hesitating only the slightest amount before placing it in her waiting hand.

"I would ask that you not reveal our location to…" His eyes narrowed and he withdrew it, eyeing her suspiciously. "Who would you like to contact?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Does it matter?"

Clearly, it did.

She didn't know if she should be outraged that he would prevent her from contacting someone, or sympathetic that he was obviously so new at what it meant to share a loved one with friends. She had no family left, she noted grimly, so at least there would be no argument over Christmases and holidays.

"It is not that young man, is it?"

Christine's mouth dropped open, before she forced herself to move forward. She took his face between hers, unmasked as it had been since they had come here—his face requiring the respite after so long in the confines of his prosthetic—and made him look at her. "Why would you even ask me that?"

His eyes shifted away from hers and he frowned. "You expressed that you had… feelings for him when first we made our acquaintance."

Christine very nearly rolled her eyes. "And who did I marry? Who shares my bed?"

Erik stood a little straighter. "Me."

" _Only_ you. Forever. So even if I did call Raoul, nothing would happen. Okay?" Erik studied her for a moment, and she willed him to see her earnestness, to put aside whatever worries flooded his mind. "As it so happens, I'm calling Meg. I miss her, and even… even if we pick a new home far away from here, I'll still want to keep in touch with her. I hope you can accept that."

The call was more difficult to make than she had expected, and for once she understood Erik's difficulty when first he had taken her with him. Pieces of the truth had to be so carefully dissected, until finally it was easier to stick to fiction entirely.

A marshal had appeared at her door.

He had whisked her away in the middle of the night, and she had no means of contacting anyone.

And now that it was safe, she'd come home.

But perhaps one detail did not need to be shared, yet faced with the prospect of doing so, she found that she desperately wanted to tell someone. Anyone.

That she'd chosen Erik. And that through it all, she did not regret it.

"I married him," she blurted out, still getting a little thrill at the thought of it.

"You what?"

"I married him. The marshal," Christine clarified, hoping that it hadn't been a mistake to speak of it.

Meg was silent for a moment, and Christine prepared herself for hearing the countless reasons that to do so had been foolish, absurd, and rash.

Only to hear Meg sigh. "You get to have all the adventures."

And Christine laughed and remembered why she was so pleased to call Meg her friend. "An officer on the case was really sweet. I thought of you when I met him."

It felt good to talk about such things again, to indulge in the feminine chatter she had so taken for granted before her time with Erik. She loved him dearly, cherished the moments she had with him, but she was coming to understand that friendships were important as well.

And after hanging up, promising to see if she could get Officer Grady's number from Nadir, Erik came to sit beside her on the sofa, his expression thoughtful—and perhaps a little apologetic. "I do not mean to keep you all to myself."

Christine laughed softly, kissing his cheek. "Yes, you do. That's why you want to stay here. Don't want to find me any clothes." He had the good sense to flush, obviously seeing the futility in arguing with what was so readily apparent. "We'll figure this out, Erik. Figure out what works for both of us. _You_ are my priority." She nudged him gently. "Husbands get that privilege, you know."

"I did not know that," he answered, most seriously.

Her poor Erik. Always trying, always just a little bit confused when it came to relationships. "Well, you'll have to trust me on that." She paused, looking at him a little closer, assessing. "Was it really so bad having me talk to her?"

Erik shook his head. "No," he admitted, smoothing his finger over her cheek. "It gave me time to tend to something."

Her eyes brightened. "Tend to what?"

Erik gestured toward the door of their bedroom. "It is waiting for you on the bed."

Images of skimpy nightgowns filled her head, and she very nearly gave Erik a swat for his presumptuousness—even as she got a little excited at the prospect of all that they could do while she wore it…

She hurried toward the bedroom door, stopping suddenly when she realized how wrong she had been, her hand coming to cover her mouth and stifle the startled gasp that threatened to emerge.

Erik came up behind her, his head coming to rest on the top of hers as he held her close. "It was your wedding dress, Christine. It was not right what was done to it."

Somehow, he had made it whole again.

She drifted forward, her hand reaching out to skim over the newly repaired bodice. She did not know how he had done it, but what once had been sliced through—what had been used to shame her as her breasts had been bared, her father's ring stolen—was now so carefully repaired.

Her Erik had done that.

For her.

"Thank you," she breathed, turning so she could throw herself into his arms. She kissed him, once, twice, trying to ignore the burning behind her eyes. "I didn't think…"

"It was your wedding dress," Erik said again. "A vision swathed in pink and atrocious footwear. My _bride._ "

She didn't correct him, remind him that he had seen most of the dress only after they had returned from the little chapel, as she hadn't even taken off her coat at their wedding, so quick was he to escort her to the altar so they might exchange their vows.

Because maybe it mattered more to him what came afterward—the part where she surrendered to him so completely, where she bared herself, body and soul, and they became one in the fullest sense.

"You're perfectly wonderful, do you know that?"

His eyes glimmered and he had the audacity to look a little smug. "Perhaps."

And she should have smacked him, should have taken her dress and insisted that they now explore their newfound freedom by going above.

Except he was pulling her back toward the bed, kissing her, _loving_ her…

But now, the day they would return to rescue the rest of her trousseau, her most treasured things, she donned it for the first time.

Only after Erik had convinced her to get out of bed, of course.

"You do not have to accompany me," he reminded her over breakfast. It seemed odd that he had a dining table so large when he had constructed his home simply for himself. But her Erik was rather odd, and she didn't want to question him.

"We're going together," she insisted, sipping at her tea and tamping down her nerves. Or attempting to. They were being wholly uncooperative, and she fiddled nervously with her toast. Nothing bad would happen—nothing at all, and she was silly to fret.

And yet she did.

Erik frowned at her, but did not suggest again that he leave her behind, for which she was grateful. There was no possibility that she would allow him to do so, but she hated how weak she felt in this regard. The Shah was in custody, and while Samuel was not, Erik had made it perfectly plain that he expressed no lingering motivation to do them further harm.

It was not that she did not believe her husband, but there was a lingering fear that she despised.

Erik had procured a coat and shoes for her, as well as new undergarments—from where exactly she did not know, though she was grateful to see that each of the articles still had the little bits of plastic attached where a tag once had been. The coat was warm, and the shoes were comfortable, and she wondered if this meant she would be walking back aboveground instead of being carried.

She was not sure which option she preferred.

"Are you ready?" Erik asked her, already buttoned up himself. He wore a mask, one of his simple, leather varieties, and it almost seemed odd to see him so covered up. She had grown used to their lazy days, and now to have to face the rest of the world…

She took a deep breath. "Yes," she answered him, glad that her voice did not waver—though Erik still did not seem wholly convinced.

"There is a stop I believe we must make before we depart for the airfield. Is that agreeable?"

Christine shrugged. "Sure. Where?"

Erik came forward and took her hand, leading from the room and out into the tunnels beyond. "You shall see."

Which made her want to pester him all the more, except that it was suddenly very dark and she would rather clutch onto his arm than pepper him with questions.

She was more than grateful when this time he brought a lantern with him, the light casting an eerie blue from the brightness of the bulb. From the numerous rats she saw scurrying away from them, however, she wondered if perhaps she liked it better when she had only her imagination to contend with.

The way he took them seemed longer than before, but she supposed that could have been due to the fact that she was forced to make the walk herself, the incline and steps at times steep and challenging. He held her hand through it all, bracing her if her steps were at all unsteady, offering on occasion to carry her.

"I can do it," she told him with a smile. The exercise was good for her, especially when she had done so little for over a week now.

When at last they emerged, it was not onto the street as before, but into the theatre itself—not at all what she was expecting. It was not a portion she was overly familiar with, but as he led her out of the small room, there was no mistaking they were indeed backstage. It was early yet, and there would be no one about for another few hours, and it felt strange and slightly exhilarating to be there all alone.

Until Erik's destination became all too clear, and she halted abruptly.

"No."

Erik paused, obviously not expecting her outright refusal.

"Christine," he began, but she cut in quickly.

"No! Why would we need to go there? Why would you even think that it would be a good idea?"

Erik sighed, bringing her unwilling hand to his lips and brushing a kiss upon her knuckles, his eyes beseeching. "Trust me. Please."

She wavered, her feet moving seemingly of their own accord, following her husband even as her mind rebelled.

Into the prop department.

Amongst the forgotten scenery.

Toward the very spot where a man's life had been extinguished.

Each step made her heart race faster, her breath to come a little shorter, and she was glad when at last Erik stopped, turning back to her and holding her face steady between both his palms, his eyes earnest. "Breathe, my Christine. You are perfectly safe. No harm shall come to you here." His voice was low and lilting, soothing in its measure as he coaxed and urged her to relax.

But a man had _died_ here…

Death had come, had stared into her very soul…

Except… it hadn't.

Not really.

She blinked, staring back into the eyes of her husband. "Why are we here?" she croaked, her throat tight and uneasy.

He smiled down at her, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "There you are," he murmured, as if she had gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Perhaps she had. Lost in memory, lost in her terrors. But Erik had found her—though she begrudgingly acknowledged he was the one to have brought her here at all.

"Why are we here?" she repeated, needing to know.

Erik looked at the large scene beside them, and she tried not to think of how Buquet had looked strung up from that very structure—of how he struggled and gasped for breath even as Death… as _Erik_ had stood at the base, simply waiting.

"Do you remember your nightmare? You said that you thought you would be his next victim." There was no mistaking the pain in his voice, as if the very idea of hurting her was repulsive to him.

She managed to relax a little.

"I remember," she whispered softly.

"That was not true," he told her firmly. "Not even then. In that moment. I want you to know that. You were never in danger, would never have suffered even the slightest mistreatment by my hand. I know… I know how frightened you must have been, to witness such a thing, but I need you to understand that you have nothing to fear from me. You never have."

A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed thickly. He had told her this, and she had believed him. He had not meant her harm, had never desired to hurt her. But for him to speak the words here—for her to have to face that the man she had seen truly was her husband, was the man she loved so completely…

Some of the terror ebbed away.

Death was not some monster lurking in the darkness of her mind, waiting to drive away her sweeter dreams, her tender memories.

There was only her husband, fighting for his right to live.

And she needn't fear that. Fear him. Never had, and never would.

When next she looked at the scene, the memory was still there, terrible and dark in nature, but she seemed to view it slightly differently. The need to flee was dimmed, as if her body had come to accept that while something dreadful was occurring, it was in no danger. Not now. Not when she trusted the man beside her so implicitly.

"I'm ready to go now, Erik," she told him, her voice sounding calmer than she'd imagined it could while in this room. Except… she felt that. More at peace, more at ease, and she was glad.

It gave her hope that when she left this theatre, when she and Erik ventured out into the world, they could find that same assurance.

They had endured much, overcome much, and they were still here, still together, the future a promising thing.

Erik kissed her temple briefly, Christine winding her arm about his middle so she could walk with him closely, leaving behind the awful business that had made for their initial meeting.

She did not know where they would go from here—if they would find a home far away, if they would return to the theatre—she to her music and Erik to his amusement as the Ghost. But there was something tantalizing about the unknown, of the possibilities that lay before them.

For all she knew, perhaps the two of them would not be just two for very long. Perhaps even now their exploits had instead created three.

"I love you," she told him again, needing him to hear it just as much as she needed to say it. "I hope you know that. And know that, even now, I don't regret any of it."

He held her a little closer, even as he ushered her into the waiting car, holding her hand all the while—off to their next adventure.

Together.

They had Wellies to rescue.

"Nor do I, little wife. Nor do I."

* * *

Sooo... what did you think? A sweet ending for our couple? Think a bright future is on their horizon? Well... they're going to the west coast and not the sunny part, so maybe a drizzly future is a more accurate description. *sigh* I think I shall rather miss them.

I don't have another phantom story in the works (though I have a tidbit of an idea for one... which is more akin to my first two stories in terms of setting). But if you'd like to see what I'm up to now, you can go over to Archive of Our Own and look up my user name (still KittyPimms) and get a glimpse of the story I'm currently working on. It's an original, and technically a sci-fi, but I hope that doesn't frighten anybody off. This is me, after all, and I think after... four stories? (Or is it five?) you're starting to know me as an author.

So anyway, until next time! If there is a next time...


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